The Prince and the Pauper
by ohcEEcho
Summary: In their third year at Camelot, Arthur and Merlin deal with perverted Lords, useless Kings, angry cats and, worst of all, each other. Eventual slash.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: Originally posted on livejournal, but I figured I should try to keep all my writing in one place. :)**

**Pairing****:** Merlin/Arthur  
**Rating****:** PG13 for now  
**Summary****:** In their third year at Camelot, Arthur and Merlin must deal with perverted Princes, useless Kings, angry cats and, worst of all, each other. Eventual slash.

**Warnings:** Featuring oblivious!Merlin, confused!Arthur and a criminally slow slash progression  
**Disclaimer****:** Tis the Beebs.

**1.**

If there was one thing Merlin hated more than arrogant self satisfied Prince's, it was _laundry day._ It was a bitterly cold morning, the dissipating frost clawing at his fingertips and the breathless air sharp in his lungs, and here he was, washing the Royal undergarments like a domestic fishwife.

He had no idea why Arthur needed so many clothes. Half of these seemed hardly worn at all; in fact, the only clothes his master seemed to wear on a regular basis were his red and white cotton shirts, black or brown leggings, and either his brown leather or red quilted jacket. With the shiny studs and the sheen on the inside, which apparently made it special. That was it, and Merlin should know, because he spent every morning, noon and night getting the smug bastard in and out of the blasted things.

"Don't see why he has to be laced and clipped and buckled into everything when all I have is strings…" he muttered mutinously, scrubbing at Arthur's favourite shirt with a little more vigour than was necessary. In his minds eye he saw the familiar curl of the Prince's red lips, and the pearly glint of a smirk_ 'Be sure to add that special Merlin touch, daaaarling?'_ Arthur had drawled jestingly the previous night as he'd piled clothes into Merlin's arms, eyes dancing with mirth, before smacking his manservant's much offended rear with the flat of his scabbard and sauntering smugly away. He was doing that more and more recently. Git.

And yet he did not resent Arthur anymore. Not for any of it, not the snide remarks or the shoves or the sudden outbursts of anger. Because he knew the Prince better than anyone, could map his flaws and fears and wants and hurts with an intricacy that sometimes frightened him. Arthur was not perfect. But it was his imperfections that made him human, and his humanity that made him-

'_Beautiful' …_great. That made him great. Worthy of destiny.

Two years. Had it really been so long since he had first stepped through that solemn gaping archway, clumsy feet stumbling on flagstones whose flaws he now knew by heart. Camelot, Merlin thought, was like its people: stubborn, worn yet ever enduring, passing year by year, day by day with steadfast resilience. It was not magic that thrummed in these old bones, but the simple aspirations of people, young and old, rich and poor. The bellied womb of this place cradled them as they came screaming into the world and sheltered them as they left it.

Two long years; everything had changed, and yet, things remained the same as ever.

A quiet creak of leather behind him was the only warning he got before a pair of strong hands grasped him by the shoulders, and with an efficient shove sent him sprawling into the icy depths of the water trough he had been washing the Prince's clothes in.

"Morning Merlin. Little cold for a swim, isn't it?"

Spluttering, Merlin sat dripping and infuriated, glaring daggers at the blurred scarlet figure grinning down at him "YOU-" he took a deep, soothing breath, calming himself in an effort not to say something that would land him in the stocks AGAIN "Are an insufferable, immature, infuriating _prat._"

Arthur beamed triumphantly, and laughed that deep, genuine melodic laugh that only his manservant ever managed to elicit from him "Careful, Merlin." He clutched his chest with a melodramatic sweeping gesture, forcing mock hurt onto his gloating features "My feelings are dangerously close to being hurt here."

"Whatever." Merlin scrambled out of the trough with little grace, glowering and shivering as the chill of the morning cut into his skin "Was there a reason for interrupting my smelly Prince laundry washing-which I _love _doing, by the way-or do you just enjoy making my life hell?"

Arthur tilted his head, his grin fading to a fond smile that caught Merlin off-guard, his anger vanishing as quickly as it had come "Well, I won't deny that I do enjoy making your life hell." Then suddenly, the Prince's nose wrinkled as his mind processed that Merlin had just indirectly insulted him "I don't smell!"

Merlin forcibly swallowed the laughter welling pleasant warmth in his chest, raising his eyebrows as Arthur adopted his 'affronted' stance, gloved hands on belted hips and lower lip protruding just a fraction. Physically, Arthur was little different from the lithe and slightly awkward teenage boy Merlin had met two years ago. He was a little taller (though still not as tall as Merlin, who had grown alarmingly, much to the Prince's chagrin), a little more elegant, and a little broader at the shoulders. His straw-blonde hair had darkened to a burnished gold with the passing of summers, and his features had grown stronger and more defined, but he was still brash and annoying and foolhardy and still inescapably _Arthur._

"Arthur, you spend almost every hour of every day sweating in leather and furs; of course you smell." Merlin unfolded his long legs from the mess they had entangled themselves in and straightened up, folding disapproving arms across his chest "Do you know what I found on your doublet this morning? Grease, blood, cake, mud, charcoal, cat hair and blueberries. And those are just the things I _recognised!_" a thought struck him, and a slow grin tugged at his lips "Wait, how _did_ you get blueberries and cat hair on it, anyway?"

Arthur cleared his throat and turned hastily away "Oh goodness, look at the time! Love to stop and chat, but Princely duty calls. Y'know, people to step on, wealth to flaunt, idiots to oversee…"

He trailed off, eying the slight tremor in his manservant's frame as Merlin fought not to wince at the heavy weight of freezing material against his skin. There was a long moment of silence as the universe passed through their locked gazes. Arthur broke first, lowering his eyes and unclasping the intricate silver buckle at his neck, tossing his fur-lined cloak at his manservant before Merlin could protest.

"My chambers at twelve, don't forget, I've got to be properly dressed for this wretched diplomat meeting my Father is making me attend." He pivoted effortlessly about on the icy ground and threw one last winning smile over his shoulder as he strode away "Happy washing!"

Merlin's brow furrowed as Arthur breached the threshold of the portcullis and vanished around a decisive corner. He stood still for a while, mind struggling with that unique confusion surrounding the Prince, and felt as ever that with that briefest of encounters Arthur had tied him in knots. The uncertainty that seemed to constantly grip him recently was starting to get very disconcerting.

That and Arthur's rapidly less subtle attempts to seemingly flirt with him.

**This IS slash, but it is a slow in the making; it's hardly natural for Merlin and Arthur to just suddenly leap into each other's arms, and I want to explore how they could potentially fall (and fall damn hard) for each other, and the confusion of it. Please bear with me!**


	2. Chapter 2

**Second installment! Oh, and just to be clear, there will be NO Arthur/Gwen in this fic. Because the chemistry between them is about as reactive as a soggy sock. In other words: NOT VERY! There may be some onesided Gwen/Merlin, but that's just canon, so. That doesn't mean she won't be part of things, though! **

**2.**

Arthur fought valiantly to keep the smile from his face, as he tried to maintain his regal composure while navigating the meandering streets of Camelot lower town. It wouldn't do for the peasants to think that the royalty was occasionally cheerful, or did anything other than sitting until their butt's grew numb looking pretty. Although, if he said so himself, he _was_ rather good at sitting and looking pretty. Hell, he could standor even walk about, and _still _manage to look pretty. But, as Merlin had often commented rather dryly, there was slightly more to being a Prince than mincing about in shiny things.

He came to a hesitant halt, gazing down at the worn, dusty cobbles beneath his booted feet. To the East the sun crawled laboriously over the horizon, permeating heat into the sleepy chill of the dawn, banishing the ghosts of the dissipating blanket of night. A slight mist hung persistently in the air, the moisture clinging to the Prince's clothes and adorning his hair and skin with a glistening sheen. A slight frown marred Arthur's sunny disposition as he thought of his manservant, and he shivered, sorely feeling the absence of his fur-lined cloak.

It had been on precisely this spot, so many chaotic months before, that he and Merlin had exchanged words and blows that forged a destiny. He sighed, and glanced about the deserted street. The world had seemed so full and foreign then.

_Tell me, __**Merlin. **__Do you know how to walk on your knees?_

Arthur huffed sharply, wincing as the memory of his own arrogant words rebounded accusingly in his mind. The most maddening thing about his manservant was that he had an uncanny ability to rile Arthur's previously almost non-existent conscience. Now every time he engaged in activities bordering on what Merlin had deemed 'royal-prickery' he got his manservant's sarcastic voice reprimanding him with such phrases as 'well that wasn't very mature now, was it?' or 'oh sure, pick on the unwashed masses, because owning soap totally makes you superior. Prat.' Even the incident just moments ago, the slight hurt and disapproval in Merlin's eyes as he stood dripping pathetically in the unforgiving courtyard had tied Arthur's stomach in knots. But dammit, teasing the boy was just so _irresistible!_

_I warn you. I've been trained to kill since birth._

_Really? And how long have you been training to be a prat?_

_You can't address me like that._

_Oh, sorry: how long have you been training to be a prat, __**my lord**__?_

The Crown Prince sighed melodramatically, feeling the sting of the barb echoing across the expanse of time and the snickering cobbles. He moved reluctantly on down the street, away from the past, and turned down a disheveled alleyway that used to lead to the smithy, lost in thought. Which was rather an odd place for _him, _Arthur Pendragon, notorious book-hater with an allergic reaction to common sense, to be lost in.

Merlin had been so different from anybody else he had ever met before. And not just because of the fact he stuck out more than a sore thumb wearing a fruity hat and doing the can-can. No. Cunningly concealed beneath the stumbles and the goofy smiles and the pudding-bowl hairwas something complex and intangible. Merlin was a servant who even as he bowed refused to defer, who defied and surprised Arthur at every turn until the Prince found himself quite dizzy with confusion. He was disrespectful, foolhardy, a _terrible _seamstress and sometimes downright infuriating, yet Arthur was still as drawn to him as he had been upon their first meeting. The squall of Merlin's grey eyes whispered tantalizing mysteries and hidden truths that maddened and frustrated the Prince. And, inexplicably, scared him a little sometimes too.

In the space of just a few weeks of service, Arthur's disposition towards Merlin had shifted seamlessly from annoyance, to amusement, to fondness, to friendship and then further, deeper, until he had been willing to jeapardise his life and his entire Kingdom to save this seemingly unremarkable, unnoticeable boy. The suddenness and intensity of the shift still unsettled Arthur a little. _Sometimes I think I know you, Merlin. Other times…_Other times? Other times he thought he saw Merlin's eyes flash gold in the darkness.

_There's something about you, Merlin. I can't quite put my finger on it._ Well, if Arthur's finger had been just about missing the metaphorical 'it' when he had first met Merlin, then his finger was probably horribly lost somewhere in the South Pacific by now. He felt little closer to understanding his enigma of a manservant, even after two years.

"Ah, bugger." He cursed eloquently, shaking his head vigorously to rid it of these sappy sentiments "Stop thinking, Arthur, you idiot, you know it doesn't agree with you." And now he was talking to himself. Great. Bloody fantastic.

He ducked under a shallow wooden outcropping which overshadowed a crude, rough hewn oak door in the side of a building. He hesitated for a moment, straightening up and brushing some of the morning dew from his shoulders. He avoided this place as often as possible; it was cowardly, he knew. But it had been on his Father's orders that Gwen's Father had died. He knew she did not blame him, simple trusting creature that she was, but he saw the lingering pain in her eyes and felt the shadow of her grief weigh across his shoulders like a shroud. The price of his loyalty to his Father, and all the transgressions that entailed, was heavy.

He steeled his nerve and curled pale fingers around the calloused iron latch, lifting it as softly as possible and shouldering the heavy door as it shuddered open with a weary creak. He slipped inside and wrinkled his nose as the fading scent of smolder and copper and ash mixed distastefully with that of musty linen. He glanced briefly about, gaze settling upon a bent figure in a rough yellow cotton dress, crouched by the fireplace.

He cleared his throat softly "Good morrow, Guinevere."

"Oh my-" There was a resounding clang and the clatter of falling pots and pans, and Arthur, chivalrous as he was even when grumpy in the mornings, hurried over to help her restore order "Drat. Thanks-" her brown eyes widened as she beheld the intruder, and she scrambled to her feet, stuttering "Your Highness! You startled me!"

"My apologies." He said, courteously enough but a little formally. There was an uncomfortable silence. "I came to collect my order?"

Her features brightened in comprehension, and she nodded enthusiastically "Yes, it's all here, just as you requested. Follow me." she led him over to the workbench in the far right corner of the room, stammering vague apologies as they navigated their way past looms and reels of cord, and arrays of different coloured fabrics hanging from low ceiling beams.

"Your business as a seamstress is prospering, I hope?" he asked awkwardly, and her answering smile was a little strained.

"Oh, yes. Well, I get by, anyway." She disappeared behind a screen, and quickly re-emerged, proudly cradling a neatly folded pile of material "I went to the merchant you suggested and found some really lovely material, see?" She rubbed a thumb across the fine cerulean texture of the main garment fondly "Ocean blue to bring out his eyes." Arthur raised his eyebrows at her distant smile as she seemed to forget herself for a moment, and found himself oddly irritated by it. A raw, sickly heat pooled in his stomach, like some kind of writhing creature, and he clenched his fists and swallowed thickly "Oh! I mean…" Gwen quickly recovered herself with a flush "well i-its…suitable for dress wear but not above his station."

"They're perfect." He said softly, taking the bundle from her, admiring the neat stitching, fine embroidery and soft texture of his purchase. "Thank you." Guinevere was a competent seamstress; and they would fit Merlin perfectly, although it had taken a lot of stealth and a bungled attempt to measure his manservant's waist to ensure that. It wasn't a gift, he told himself firmly. Just a courtesy. A perk. A bonus for a job well done.

Gwen smiled and tilted her head a little, and said boldly "It's really very nice of you, sire."

"Nice?" Arthur repeated suspiciously, the word rolling off his tongue like it was a dirty concept. She clasped her hands and hesitated.

"I-I mean…for you to commission these. For Merlin. I know they'll mean a lot to him."

"Is that so?" he said, vaguely, a little pompously "I merely required some suitable attire for my manservant so he doesn't look like a three week old haystack for once. The caravan from Baldor arrives today, you know."

"Yes." She nodded fervently, and in her eagerness chose her words rather carelessly "Yes, but it will be like you are officially acknowledging your attachment to him."

There was a long pause, and Arthur's eyebrows nearly hit the roof.

"I don't know what rumours have been circulating around the staff, Guinevere-"

She blanched violently "No, no, Lord no!" Arthur grew amused as she floundered and blushed a fierce shade of red "Like…like he belongs to you, I mean. Oh God!" Arthur thought his eyebrows were somewhere in the stratosphere by now "No, n-not like that…but…that his services…that you two are…friends?" she finished, lamely, thoroughly distressed.

He considered her for a moment before drawing out a guarded "I…see."

"Well, I'm sure you're busy." She said hastily, shepherding him towards the door "T-Thank you for your patronage, sire."

She looked thoroughly relieved as he smiled winningly and pushed the door ajar "It's fine work. I will be sure to recommend you to members of the court." She flushed with pleasure, though still very winded by her recent enthusiasms. He inclined his head slightly as he left "Good day." Odd girl, he thought. Nice. But odd.

Alone in the street once more, as Camelot stirred and the distant rumblings of people going about their daily work petered through the growing light of day, Arthur frowned down at the innocent bundle he held in his arms.

_I know it'll mean a lot to him._ Guinevere's words of moments ago drifted back to him, and he let out a long, slow breath as he tried to fathom just _why _he had made the compulsive move to commission the damn things in the first place.

It wasn't a gift. It _wasn't. _And even if it was, so what? Merlin was his aide and, dare he voice it, his friend. And a long-suffering one at that.

As Prince of the realm, Arthur had never been particularly close to anyone before. Not with his Father, that faceless foreboding figure that had haunted the empty doorways of his childhood, who both loved and resented his son with a fierce and threatening passion. Nor with Morgana, his onetime ally hunting unreal creatures in the long grass, who had quickly ascended to that exclusively femenine world of dresses and silks and sickly sweet smells. Nor with the endless sea of nameless monochrome dwellers, who bowed and scraped and parted the way as he approached. No. He lived bound to his seclusion in a gilded cage of priviledge, and he had hated it.

Until Merlin came.

Merlin with his careless honesty, his haphazard smile and easy laughter. Merlin who remained fiercely loyal not due to fear or duty, but because he somehow actually _liked_ Arthur. Merlin who would throw down his life for so brashly for a Prince he barely knew, who would drink knowingly from a poisoned cup of wine, and get himself thrown in the stocks to salvage his master's dignity. Merlin who looked at him like he knew him, and like it didn't matter that Arthur wasn't perfect.

Merlin, the gawky dimwit who wouldn't get the hell out of Arthur's head.

**I know, no Merlin/Arthur interaction in this part, but I needed to sort Arthur's thoughts up until this point first. Meh. Comments are appreciated!**


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: Third chapter up! Thank you once again to all the lovely people who reviewed, feedback means a lot! Finally, some proper Merlin/Arthur interaction:**

**3.**

"Stupid horses, stupid troughs, stupid boots, stupid PRINCES-" Merlin grumbled distractedly, wincing as his still soaked boots squelched jovially with his every hasty step "Damn, I'm late. Arthur'll have my head. On a platter. Probably with cranberries and mint sauce, the stuck-up bastard."

He bounded up the last few steps of the stairwell leading to the Royal corridor in the west wing of the castle, shaking his head at his master's antics. Arthur may have matured a lot from the arrogant arse he had once been, but he could still be as childish as a toddler when he wanted, as this morning's little fiasco had proved. Merlin sighed softly, running a hand through his still damp hair, but smiled nonetheless, absently re-arranging the cloak under his arm. At least Arthur felt guilty for it, and had apologised. In his own unique, Arthur-y way.

Merlin approached the tall, proudly burnished mahogany door which led to Arthur's chambers and fumbled at his waist for his ring of keys, recognizing the shape of the appropriate one without looking. He had had the heavy iron lock installed himself about a year ago when an unknown assassin (disguised unconvincingly as a particularly butch serving maid) had broken into Arthur's chamber and nearly decapitated the oblivious 'sleeping beauty'. Arthur had thought the sight of the bearded 'maid' wielding a dagger in full wimpled regalia was hilarious, but the incident had nearly given Merlin a heart attack.

"Certainly not!" Arthur had protested, pouting with outrage when Merlin suggested the installation of a lock "I will NOT be some damsel Princess locked up in a tall tall tower so the nasty men can't get at me! I can take care of myself."

That, in Merlin's opinion (as said damsel's reluctant safe-keeper and baby-sitter) was the biggest load of balls he'd ever heard, and shrewdly reminded Arthur of the unfortunate business with that obsessed molesting courtier after a lock of the Prince's hair, and well. Arthur had paled and quickly relented. Merlin was inexplicably pleased that only he, Arthur and Uther had a copy of the key. He had even enchanted the lock so that his own key would glow heatedly if anybody tried to force the door. A little voice in his head that sounded suspiciously like Arthur had accused him of being an _'overprotective, pedantic, paranoid Prince-stalker!' _but thankfully, Merlin was very good at ignoring _Arthur's _voice.

He fitted the key in the lock, turned it with well-practiced ease and slipped inside.

The Prince's room was always warm, or so it seemed to Merlin, even in the depths of Winter. Well, he should bloody hope so, as he worked criminally hard to keep the fire burning in here. NOT that he had enchanted that, too. He closed the door quietly behind him and deep a deep breath of the clean, musty air, glancing about. Clearly the Prince hadn't arrived yet. Good. He took a moment to admire the scene before him.

The noonday sunlight was pouring through the lead-patterned windows, congealing in pools of dusty gold on the smoothly swept flagstones and glistening on the polished pine of the furniture. The heavily hung scarlet drapes at the four-poster bed half shielded the rumpled mess of crisp white linen interspersed with gold-embossed velveteen covers, as though protecting the Prince's sleepy humanity. This was Arthur's realm, a gilded sanctuary isolated from the cold unknown of the rest of the castle. To the unknowing eye, it seemed a chamber just like any other; but Merlin knew that, just like its occupant, these chambers contained hidden levels of complexity which, as the mysteries were slowly unraveled, often proved surprising.

But sometimes, like today, Merlin mused, it just looked a bloody tip.

"Where the hell have you been?!"

Merlin was alerted to Arthur's presence by the traditional 'hurling a boot in my manservant's surprised face' tactic, and he grimaced as the impact of leather on skin smarted harshly.

"Sorry, I got held up. Pneumonia's an effective way to slow a person down." He said bitingly, as the dressing screen from behind which the offending boot had been hurled was shoved roughly aside to reveal a very pissed off Crown Prince.

"Don't be such a wet blanket, Merlin." He snapped, and Merlin was taken aback at the Prince's appearance. Instead of the brown suede clothing Merlin had so laboriously slipped on a grumpy Arthur that morning, he now stood in bare feet with hair unkempt in a simple cotton undershirt (unlaced, slipping off one shoulder and half tucked in at the waist) and a pair of plain black leggings. He was…uncharacteristically ruffled for midday, and looked vulnerably young and unguarded. Merlin felt heat pool in the pit of his stomach.

"…pun intended." Merlin started as he realised Arthur had been speaking "Oh, and I'll expect you to wipe up the mess you're dripping all over my rug later."

The unsettled Warlock hastily gathered his scattered wits "I figured." He replied wryly, and gestured to the chaotic rainbow of material spilling out of the chest behind the screen "What's all the mess about?"

Arthur glowered, and tossed a particularly garish purple cloak to the floor "I can't find my black jacket…"

Merlin cocked an eyebrow "The leather one?" he frowned as a mental image of the forbidding item of clothing appeared in his mind. It was what Arthur called his 'pissed-off pelt', all black sheen and silver buckles which generally screamed 'back off!', and Arthur only ever wore it when he was in a very foul mood or feeling defensive. Neither of which boded well. "With the in-built sheathes, and the special padding? Why on earth would you want that jacket for a diplomat meeting?"

The Prince's eyes flashed darkly as the walls slammed up "Because I feel like it, alright!" he turned abruptly and resumed ravaging the chest for the item in question, clothes flying hither and thither "Now help me find it! And those riding boots I use for the stallions, too."

Merlin frowned a little at the back of Arthur's head, and made an exaggerated effort to shuffle mindlessly about before muttering a quiet _fretje:_ _find_ under his breath, and the boots and the jacket flew tamely into his hands "Here they are." He said triumphantly, holding them proudly out to a bemused Arthur "Studs and all."

Arthur merely grunted his thanks and extended an arm. Merlin obediently began re-assembling the disheveled Prince's dignity, tucking and lacing and buckling until Arthur looked somewhat more presentable. He navigated the planes of Arthur's body with seamless ease; he knew every ridge of bone, every curve, every tiny imperfection that Arthur shielded with pomp and emblazoned crests: from the needle thin scar on the Prince's left temple to the slight crook in his right canine. He could tell precisely when Arthur was losing weight and exactly when he needed to extend his morning workout. He could even tell which particular form of combat Arthur was favouring at any given time, from the slight shifts in sinew and the waxing and waning callouses on his hands.

He sometimes felt he knew the Prince so well that he lost the boundary between them entirely, and anything unrelated to Arthur that defined him ceased to be.

"Dare I ask why you want to dress like an assassin at a funeral when you're going to what is supposedly a celebration?" His firm but unjudging tone punctured the heady quiet, and Arthur's shoulders slumped beneath his fingertips as the Prince took a deep breath and let the tension leave him.

"Because unfortunately, Baldorean etiquette is a very specific kettle of fish."

Merlin blinked "What have kettles of fish got to do with anything?"

Arthur looked at him incredulously "I thought you were supposed to be one of those earthy colloquial country boys, perpetually covered in manure and spitting out constant metaphoric riddles?"

"What?!"

"Nevermind. Anyway, the point is that Baldor is…sort of the spotty pre-pubescent outcast of the Albion lands, y'know?" Arthur continued, throwing himself into a nearby chair as Merlin knelt to wrestle the Prince's stubborn ankles into equally stubborn boots "Why? Because it's so secluded? It's surrounded by the mountains of Perren by the sea isn't it?" Just a little to the left…there! Only one more strap left to go.

Arthur chuckled, the reverberations making Merlin's fingers fumble "Yeah, that's right. Been chewing at those stuffy old books again, I see." Merlin could practically taste the smirk in the air "The point is-"

"You've already said that."

Arthur booted him moodily with a studded toe "The pointiest point of ALL is that they have very weird and specific social conventions." Merlin glanced up, intrigued, and just caught the slightly sour look crossing the Prince's troubled features "I've heard about some of their rituals, and believe me, it's VERY easy to offend them. What you wear, what you say, how you move, it's all judged."

Merlin frowned and straightened up, dusting off his own clothes and wincing as his knees cracked "You sound like you've encountered them before."

Arthur absently chewed at the tip of his thumb in a disarmingly childish gesture "Once." He murmured tonelessly, his eyes oddly vacant "When I was very young."

Merlin's frown deepened, and he felt the first icy clutches of concern rake at his heart as Arthur seemed to shake himself out of his reverie and return to reality "Anyway. There will be feasting, not-so-merry-making and most importantly, dancing."

Merlin folded his arms, eyebrows raised "Why is dancing so important?"

"It's an integral part of a greeting ritual in their culture, apparently." Arthur snorted and reached mindlessly for a half-full goblet stood expectantly on the table "Flouncing about in ruffles is obviously their idea of a great way to break the ice." He took a long draught, and Merlin was relieved when the familiar glimmer of mischief returned to the Prince's cornflower-blue eyes "And everyone has to be involved, gangly tea-pot eared menservants included."

The blood drained from Merlin's cheeks "I have to _dance?!_" He exclaimed, horrified, as Arthur's grin slowly widened to bare predatory teeth "No. No, no way. You know I can't! Can't I just…skip out? Work in the kitchens?"

"Mer-_lin_." Arthur drawled, lounging luxuriously into the solid regality of the chair "You're my manservant and my aide. I need you there." For just a snatch of a moment that foreboding blankness returned to Arthur's gaze, and for the first time Merlin noticed the carefully concealed shadows encircling the Prince's irises.

Merlin curved a clenched fist against the table and leant forwards, fixing his master with a beady eye "Is there something you're not telling me?" he said, bluntly.

Arthur grinned that lopsided, winning grin that would have fooled anybody else completely, but the smile did not quite reach his eyes "There's always something I'm not telling you." He said flippantly, before suddenly launching himself out of the chair and punching Merlin in the shoulder with that odd brand of Knightly camaraderie that Merlin never understood "And Baldorean dancing is easy! You just sort of…bob about. Do a few twirls, you know."

Merlin's lips curled at the edges "I bet you're proficient at twirling."

"Shut UP." Arthur glared, annoyed, moving towards the neat pile of weapons in the corner of the room and speaking harshly over his shoulder "Just for that, I'm ORDERING you to be there tonight, and you _will_ accept any opportunities to dance, is that clear?"

"Yes, sire." Merlin muttered mechanically, heart sinking as he felt the threat of imminent humiliation overwhelm him "But Arthur, please. I can't dance."

Arthur regarded him piercingly as he sheathed his ceremonial sword into the scabbard at his waist and slipped a dagger up his left sleeve. He sighed and said resignedly "What time is it?"

Merlin blinked, confused, and glanced out of the window "Uh, a little past noon, I think."

"Damn." The Prince seemed to think hard for a moment; it was clearly a stressful experience "I have drills shortly. And Morgana will be busy all afternoon getting her _hair _fixed." He paused, then seemed to reach some sort of conclusion "Alright, get over here."

"What?" Merlin said blankly as Arthur gestured imperiously at him and repeated "Come _here_, you dolt."

Merlin approached warily, watching in trepidation as Arthur rolled up his sleeves and slipped his gloves off, tucking them into his belt.

"What are you doing?" he asked, and very nearly squeaked embarrassingly when Arthur's pale hands encircled his wrists.

"What does it look like?!" The Prince said sarcastically, moving closer "Welcome to dancing for dimwits, class one. Now, when dancing, the general pose is to put one hand here," and, to Merlin's astonishment, Arthur proceeded to position Merlin's left hand on his shoulder "and the other one here." and his right at the Prince's waist.

Merlin simply stood frozen for a long time, mouth agape, dumbfounded.

"I'm not sure this was in the job description, sire." He managed to blurt out, smiling slightly hysterically as his cheeks burned "Isn't Prince manhandling a capital offence?"

Arthur smacked him upside the head, annoyed "Do you want to be humiliated this evening or not?! I'm not doing this for _my_ benefit, you know!" the Prince rolled his eyes, and Merlin's knees nearly gave way as he placed his hands unabashedly on Merlin's waist, guiding him "Ungrateful uncultured snot. Now do as I say and try to _remember. _God knows I won't be doing this again."

Oh, how wrong one Prince can be.

"Move your feet like this." Arthur demonstrated a simple sequence of steps, and Merlin stumbled as he struggled to follow "No, no, _you_ have to lead, assuming you manage to find yourself a girl and not a blind drunk noble."

Merlin steeled himself, resigned to ignoring the surreal nature of this particular situation (I'm dancing, for Dragon's sake! With ARTHUR!) as Arthur hummed a simple tune almost imperceptibly under his breath, scrutinizing Merlin's footwork and correcting him harshly when he found fault. After about a minute of the awkward, faltering rhythm Merlin began to feel for the beat of the movement, and the dance (if it even classified as one) became more fluid even as Merlin's cheeks grew hotter and his head began to spin.

"This is weird." He muttered without thinking, and Arthur did not immediately reply, seemingly concentrating. The Prince's hands seemed to scorch through the thin, rough material of his shirt and scald his bare skin raw, and he tried desperately to ignore that despite how uncomfortable he felt, he and Arthur seemed to fit around each other like two halves of the same whole.

"You're just not used to it." Merlin jerked as Arthur's voice startled him, and the Prince tutted, stepping his manservant back into the rhythm with an insistent push "Dancing is not weird."

There was a strong pressure in Merlin's head, and every fibre of his being tingled with some unknown, crackling energy that was unsettlingly akin to the sensation when he performed magic. The overpowering presence that was Arthur, the heady scent of long summer grass and fresh linen interwoven with the harsher tones of iron and oils and fur and creaky leather, enveloped him and choked him with a permeating smell like honey mixed with blood.

"No, but dancing with the Crown Prince is." He gritted out, and Arthur's head snapped up "You should be honoured! There are hordes of girls throughout this kingdom who would kill for a chance to dance with me!" his fair eyebrows disappeared beneath the border of his fringe "You _do _want to have romantic relations at some point in your life, Merlin?"

"Y-Yes! Of course!" he stuttered falteringly, and Arthur laughed, the rosy tang of wine on his breath "Well then, dancing is a necessity." He grinned that grin again "Just close your eyes and imagine I'm some rosy-cheeked country hoyden."

He wiggled his eyebrows suggestively and Merlin, foolishly, retaliated "Funnily enough, it's not such a giant leap of the imagination."

They stopped abruptly, and Merlin could have sworn he felt thunder in the air.

"And just WHAT…" Arthur bit out icily "do you mean by THAT, _Merlin_?"

Uh, oh. Now I'm for it. Lifetime in the stocks here I come "Well, uhm…" Merlin backed slowly away, palms spread placatingly before the Prince, who was bristling like a hissing cat "you see, sire, you…well…" he let his hands fall and bowed his head, defeated "forget it."

"No, no, no, Merlin." Arthur's hand clapped down very tightly on Merlin's shoulder, his manservant's imminent death dancing in his manic eyes "My most favourite manservant in all the whole wide world, you simply _must _speak your mind."

"I only meant…" the grip on his shoulder tightened painfully, and he gulped, hard "that there might, _possibly, _be certain aspects about your countenance that are justatinybitfeminine please don't put me in the stocks?"

The Prince's eyes narrowed to slits "You're saying I look like a girl?"

"No!" Merlin exclaimed desperately "No, it's not like that, it's just-"

Quite suddenly the tension was gone as Arthur burst out laughing "You need to spend more time with the kitchen girls, Merlin!" he said incredulously between snickers, eying his manservant with a distinct twinkle in his eye "Or perhaps I should take you on a night tour of the town sometime, hmm?"

Merlin felt relief shudder through him like a blessing, thankful for once for the Crown Prince's unpredictable mood swings, and his brow furrowed in confusion "Why? You're putting me on guard duty?"

Arthur stared at him blankly, and deadpanned "Good God. You are joking, I hope?"

Merlin frowned, frustrated "What? What am I missing here?"

Arthur sighed melodramatically and ruffled his manservant's hair patronizingly "It's called a clue, Merlin, I suggest you get one."

**A/N: A toffee cookie for anyone who has guessed what's up with Arthur! Hee! Much longer and prompter so maybe more yummy comments for a good little slash-bringer? (bounces)**


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N: (sigh) I really need to hurry up and get to the main plot. Ah well. Slow buildup is what I said and slow is what I deliver! As ever, profuse thanks to all those who reviewed! Here comes chapter 4: again, NO het. Just sisterly/brotherly Arthur and Morgana and slight innuendo ;)**

**4.**

"Good morning, Gaius!"

The venerable court physician started as he turned the corner, and nearly collided with a maroon and brown blur holding a large wicker basket. He hurriedly clasped a wedge in the stone as the large bucket he was holding slopped dangerously, and took a deep breath before smiling a little tightly down at Guinevere.

"Good morning, my dear." He said, kindly, and frowned a little as his ailing eyes took in her unkempt hair and breezy manner "You seem a little busy."

She grinned, looking all at once weary yet content, and adjusted the basket under her arm with a twinkle in her eye "Yes, the whole castle's in a fret over preparations for this evening." Her gaze brightened as she stifled a laugh "But I'm not nearly as busy as Merlin, it seems."

"Oh?" Gaius raised a powder-white eyebrow "What has the fool done now?"

She bit her lip to quell her laughter, and gestured helplessly towards the door behind her, leading to the physician's quarters "See for yourself!" a giggle tore itself free from her lips and she scurried on up the corridor, calling merrily back over her shoulder as she went "Good day, Gaius!"

Puzzled and more than a little intrigued, Gaius grumped as he lugged the heavy bucket up off the floor and pressed a gnarled but heavy hand against the rough hewn surface of the door, and pushed slowly, peering around the lip as he went.

He was met with a TERRIFYING spectacle.

"MERLIN!!! _What_ are you doing with that broom?!"

"Gaius!" Merlin dropped the offending object with a resounding thud, eyes wide, blood flooding his cheeks "I…I was just…uhm…"

Gaius slammed the bucket he was holding down on the flagged stone floor before he dropped it, and folded his arms, admonishing and more than a little astonished "I hope you have an excellent explanation for this magical…_mistreatment_ of an innocent household appendage!"

"I was practising, for this evening! Arthur-"

Gaius grimaced, barely concealing the smile curling his lips "Ah. The Prince." He shook his head despairingly "I should have known."

Merlin bowed his head and shuffled his feet, and muttered rebelliously "He said I would have to dance." Gaius sighed, regarding the young boy in his care with an amused incredulity. "And that is why you were waltzing that poor object around the room, is it?" Honestly, what was he supposed to think, walking in to find the boy trying to do some kind of botched foxtrot with a stick?

The young Warlock nodded wordlessly, tugging nervously at his scarf, reaching to retrieve the fallen broom, dejected "Will I have to dance?"

Gaius nodded, moving past Merlin to kneel by the fire and tug a large metal tub out from under a pile of miscellaneous forgotten objects "It is probable." He said distractedly, turning the tub outside down and slamming the bottom, raising an eyebrow as a spider and several dazed woodlice scuttled away "The Baldorean's are a most liberal people. The divides between their feudal castes are very…unconventional."

"Eh?" Merlin said intelligently, his face scrunching in confusion "Hey, Arthur said something about that-"

Gaius rolled his eyes, gesturing for Merlin to bring the water-filled bucket over to the fire "Never you mind, scamp." He maneuvered the bucket handle over the hook above the flames with a satisfying clunk, and a light steam rose as the bathwater began to warm "Now get those filthy clothes off. You must be presentable this evening. You're meant to be representing the Prince, not the Prince's stables." Merlin sighed and muttered something mutinous, picking at the half-dried flecks of horse manure on his shirt "Oh, ye god's and rotten poppy-kernels, I knew I'd forgotten something!"

Merlin, arms entangled and his shirt halfway over his head, muffled out an obscured "What is it, Gaius?"

Gaius shook his head despairingly, and straightened up with an unhealthy systematic rhythm of groans from his bones "You'll need some smarter clothes if you're to attend tonight-"

"Oh no, that's alright, Gaius." Merlin garbled, taking a fresh gulp of air as he finally struggled free from his cotton confines "It's already been seen to."

"Oh?" the physician snorted in disbelief "And do you really expect me to believe that you've actually managed to be prepared for once?"

Merlin smiled sheepishly, and shook his head, his thick brown hair curling in utter disarray around his ears "No, but Arthur has." He grinned smugly, but Gaius caught the glow of genuine pride and pleasure in his grey eyes "See for yourself." He pointed to the table standing in the middle of the room, upon which something sat nestled carefully in an ordered mess of unwrapped tannin.

With great care, he grasped the simultaneously soft yet firm material at a heavy seam, lifted it free of the wrappings, and marveled at it, momentarily stunned. Its structure was the simple garb of the castle servant, but it was constructed in such a way to be dignified with an understated beauty. The leggings were a deep burgundy red, sturdy yet thin enough that the occupant would not overheat, and very resistant to wear and fray. Gaius was astounded to note that the hose even had one of those newfangled in-built pouched on either side of the waist! What were the called? Hockets? No, no, _pockets_. That was it.

"Good gracious!" he murmured, replacing the hose and reaching for the other components of the clothing "These must be worth a fortune!"

The undershirt was smooth beneath his calloused fingers, and was a light, pearly grey hue with flecks of green and yellow which, Gaius was a little unnerved to note, would match Merlin's eyes perfectly. The sleeves were fitted and stiffened for integrity, with a light band of studs around each wrist, giving the illusion of matching bracelets. The main body of the entire garment was a rich ocean blue, with shoulders that jutted out at an angle and gave the impression of a slightly more forbearing character (something Merlin desperately needed, Gaius thought) with that same pattern of studs as at the wrist. Studs which seemed to eerily mirror the Prince's preferred style of clothing. Emblazoned in the very centre of the chest like a brand was Arthur's coat of arms, the Pendragon, embroidered in bold silver. Silver, not gold. Firmly indicating a pledge of service to a Prince, not a King.

"Really?" Merlin was saying, wide eyed, hopping about awkwardly as he tried not to overbalance while tugging at a sock "I knew it was nice material, but-"

These were no ordinary, throwaway garments. Somebody had poured an enormous amount of thought and care into them. Somebody who ordinarily would not be seen dead in a sentence with the words 'thoughtful' and 'caring'. Gaius' brow furrowed thoughtfully. In many ways Arthur was decidedly different from his Father, but in this both Pendragon's endured: they were quite the most unpredictable and confusing men Gaius had ever known.

"Hm, yes, this must be…" his eyes widened as he noted how the make-up of the outer garment was intended to repel superficial hits. What on Earth was Arthur afraid of? "A Valerian silk and cotton blend. And silver embroidery on the dragon!" he gave the oblivious Warlock a searching look, and said guardedly "This was very generous of the Prince. Have you done something to make him feel guilty?"

A slightly bitter curl spread over the young Warlock's lips "No, but _he _has." He shook his head disbelievingly, cursing as he nearly overbalanced, tugging a sock free "Plenty of times. He feels bad for abusing me all the time. I think some nice clothes is the least I deserve, personally." Suddenly, the clouds that stormed across Merlin's features seemed to dissolve, giving way to an expression so tender it seemed foreign even on the young warlock's kind features "Still, it was kind of him to think of it." He murmured, his eyes distant, a secretive smile stealing across his mouth.

"Yes." Gaius said, absently, eying the boy intently "Yes, it was."

Over the past two years, he had watched these two most special boys grow and mature together. He had seen each willingly give their life, for the merest chance of saving the other, as though…as though without the other, there could be no them. He had seen a dying Warlock summon up the last vestiges of his strength, to cast a light to guide the way for his lost Prince. And he had heard, from Merlin's own lips, how a Prince had drunk phantom death in a chalice in sacrifice, not for a servant, not for a sorcerer, but for a friend. He had seen the weight of the world lift from Merlin's shoulders whenever Arthur's sacred laughter touched his heart, and had seen the face of an innocent, mischievous little boy Gaius had thought long dead on the features of a wearied Prince whenever Merlin blessed him with that crooked, simple smile.

Every time their eyes met the world burned, and Gaius saw the sacred glory the old ballads sung of, of beauty indescribable and love that ran deeper than the very vein's of the earth itself. Arthur and Merlin. The idiot and the prat. The Prince and his Pauper.

Something slipped out from the folds of the garment in Gaius' hands, and he stooped with some effort to retrieve it from the floor. Brow furrowed, he scanned the small slip of vellum briefly, recognizing the boldly strident scrawl of the Crown Prince, ink etched proudly across the uneven surface:

_**No silly hats this time.**_

_**-Arthur**_

He raised his eyebrows, and held out the parchment to a curious Merlin "Some sort of personal joke?"

Merlin's youthful laugh was pure, unadulterated joy to the old physician's beaten soul "Just Arthur being Arthur." He said, with a fondness that seemed to spread warmth into even the coldest forgotten corners of the room.

&&&

Arthur paced.

He spun his worries in languid ovals, back and forth, back and forth, until he felt dizzily like a heavy pendulum on a fragile string. Snap. It breaks. Broken. _**Broken.**_ He felt sick. His stomach churned his insides to acid, he couldn't think straight. He smoothed sweaty palms over cool black leather, rubbed his forefinger lovingly against the lethally sharp tip of the dagger concealed up his left sleeve.

"Arthur!" Morgana's soft, teasing tone nearly scared him out of his wits "You're on time. I'm astounded."

He cursed silently at the sharp sting at the vulnerable, blue veined skin of his inner wrist. A single, oozing rivulet of blood crawled across the ridges of his palm and he stared, eerily fascinated, transfixed. He took a deep, calming breath and forcibly dragged himself from his reverie, turning slowly to face his adopted sister.

"Morgana." He returned, maintaining his usual arrogant, untouchable façade with some effort "As ever, I'm utterly overwhelmed by your charm."

She smiled, her dark eyes dancing with mirth, and the thrill of the game "It is a gift," she paused, looking him over disdainfully "which alas, only casts it's blessings over some."

Arthur huffed and turned away, pretending to study the intricate wooden carvings upon the door of the feasting hall with some intensity "I can be charming."

"Can be, when you try." She said, silkily, the resounding echo of her every step making Arthur's head ache as she approached "But you don't."

"Only when necessary." He muttered distractedly. He was in no mood for this fruitless banter "Have you seen them?" he said, sharply, and he felt rather than saw her frown, her considering him, the shift in mood as a shadow of shared knowledge passed over them both.

"Yes." She said, softly, her silken hair whispering as she moved.

"What is the party composed of?" he asked, abruptly, a little surprised himself at the lack of emotion in his tone. He refused to meet her gaze, but felt her troubled look bore into the back of his head regardless.

"Well, King Balor, naturally." She said, after a hesitant pause "His partner, his _consort_." They both smirked a little at that "Prince Catalan, and a handful of nobles. Not to mention the hordes of aides, naturally."

Arthur nodded slowly. There was a moment of silence.

"Which nobles?" he asked, darkly, the words echoing around the empty space like an accusation.

"I could not tell." She said with silent apology, and suddenly she was in front of him, clasping his hand in hers with a look of such concern in her normally so stoic gaze that he almost felt guilty. She wrinkled her nose as she felt the gungy dampness in his palm, and inspected the damage with a desolate sigh, whipping a lace handkerchief from the confines of her gown and dabbing gently at the blood. A damning crimson blot spread across the pure, innocent linen like a curse.

"Oh, Arthur…" she murmured, so softly it seemed almost like the unnoticed caress of a draft in the still cool of the corridor "Will you be alright this evening?"

He withdrew his hand from hers, sharply, but with as little aggression as he could manage. Something foul congealed in his insides, in his throat, in his heart. He was black and red and he felt it. "Yes, of course." He swallowed, and felt his face turn and heart turn to stone "Why wouldn't I be?"

"Your highnesses?"

For the second time in so many minutes Arthur nearly had a spontaneous heart attack, and leapt away from his manservant as though he had been stung "Oh, good evening Merlin." Morgana greeted, congenially, her eyes brightening as she looked him over "My, you look wonderful!"

Arthur turned, and found himself suddenly wordless, the intended sharp barbs dying on his tongue.

Over time Merlin's sharp, gangly awkwardness had matured into an almost feline grace that suited his new garb well. His shoulders were broad, and although not as well built as Arthur's they held a sinewy strength that gave him presence when he stood tall. His features, once sharp and on the brink of gauntness had filled out into an array of dignified, chiseled angles that seemed to hold his soulful eyes and expressive smile like an artist's easel holding an unpainted canvas. His hair had darkened over the years to a deep brown that was almost black, and now, grown longer, washed and properly combed as it was it curled pleasantly in wisps that framed his face.

"Thank you, my lady." Merlin said nervously, smiling uncertainly. Arthur gave him an expectant look and he blanched "O-Oh! As do you, my lady, you look…" he trailed off, floundering, then grinned apologetically "wonderful too?"

She laughed melodically, and Arthur realised with surprise as he surveyed his manservant that he no longer felt sick "Where did you get those garments? They look very well tailored."

Arthur's stomach turned over as he panicked, even as his subconscious informed him rather sappily that the clothes he had commissioned looked as well-fitted and suitable as he'd imagined. He made a mental note to KILL his subconscious PAINFULLY later.

"Well, actually-" Merlin way saying obliviously, giving Arthur a glowing look of such gratitude and pride that Arthur very nearly didn't cut across him.

"Well, we must be getting to our places. Come, Merlin." He said authoritatively, relieved to feel a strength flowing back into his washed-out limbs as Merlin's naïve presence seemed to envelope him with comfort "Now. If my cup is ever empty, I'll…" he trailed off, hand poised hesitantly on the large oak door "…do something _very_ unpleasant."

Merlin raised his eyebrows at the slight lameness of the threat, but Arthur found for once that he did not mind Merlin's snarks and looks and confusions, just as long as he was _there. _He glanced quickly around the bustling chaos of the great hall, and was relieved to see his Father's seat at the head of the table blessedly empty.

He turned to Merlin, flashing his manservant a slightly stiff grin "Oh, and don't forget your little promise to me."

_I'm ORDERING you to be there tonight, and you __**will**__ accept any opportunities to dance, is that clear?_

He felt a little guilty. He hated _ordering _Merlin to do things. It was his prerogative, but it felt somehow like he was violating a sacred trust, defiling the ideal of a…friendship between them. But tonight, just for tonight. He needed Merlin there. Needed that sense of normalcy, of routine, of safety. And damn if he wasn't acting like some kind of pathetic, clingy _girl. _

Merlin sighed and wrinkled his nose, fiddling at the hem of his new clothes--which _were_ a perfect fit, Arthur would _really _have to recommend Gwen to the aristocracy; or…perhaps she simply knew Merlin's body too well. He frowned. Now, why did that thought annoy him?

"Arthur, I really don't think-" Merlin bit his lip and shuffled his feet as he pulled Arthur's chair back in preparation, as per his requirements as an aide "can't I just…fill chalices like I usually do?"

Arthur simply couldn't resist "Nothing would give me more pleasure than to have you filling my cup all evening, Merlin." He wiggled his eyebrows suggestively, but the innuendo was completely lost on his manservant, who was peering suspiciously round at the court. Arthur sighed and bemoaned the lack of appreciation for his snarking abilities "But alas, we must all do our duty for the diplomatic greater good."

"What are you whining about, you're going to enjoy it as much as you always do!" Merlin huffed melodramatically, fussing absently at the padding in Arthur's chair and some invisible stain on the Prince's leather-clad shoulders "You're in for a fun-filled evening of wine, fawning women and venison while I stand there waiting for my feet to drop off."

Arthur glowered darkly, and sat back heavily "Oh, no." his fingers curled slowly into fists on the arms of his chair "Believe me, I am NOT going to enjoy this."

Merlin, in his invaluable capacity to understand the confusing entity that was the Crown Prince, seemed to sense Arthur's distress and inquired quietly but not probingly "Why not?"

"Just you wait." If looks could kill, he was pretty sure the innocent looking pear in the bowl in front of him would have burst into flames by now "You'll see soon enough. Listen;" cold dread had pooled in his stomach, and he had the sudden clarity of mind to warn, to communicate, somehow, be prepared "A few words of advice: be polite, but not overly friendly. Do what you're told but NOT if you feel it's inappropriate. In the event you feel threatened, you make an excuse and come straight to me. Do you understand?"

Merlin frowned, concern dancing in his dark gaze as Arthur stared at him intently, willing himself to betray nothing of his tumultuous emotions. Merlin must be protected. But he could not _know. _And Merlin was one of the few people who seemed always able to see right through him like he was pained glass.

"Yes…" his manservant agreed, hesitantly "But, Arthur, I don't get it! What's so-"

"Ladies and gentlemen!" the booming call of the Royal crier cut across the murmurs of excitement and apprehension that swept the hall "The royal envoy of the Kingdom of Baldor approaches."

"All rise." Silence fell as the biting authority of Uther Pendragon spread from the yawning dark of the doorway in which he now stood, at the back of the hall "Let us welcome our new allies with the most gracious of receptions."

With a confidently slow and deliberate pace, his Father approached his chair, giving an infinitesimal nod which prompted the Lord's and Ladies to resume their seats. Under the cover of the ensuing bustle, Uther leant down and dropped a heavy leather hand onto his son's shoulder, like the weight of responsibility itself.

"Arthur." He said, sharply and firmly, and Arthur did not meet his gaze "I trust you will behave yourself this time."

His eyes narrowed, and he felt an unexpected throb of hatred "Yes, Father."

&&&

**Hm, I both love and hate Uther. Damn, I really wanted to fit the next section into this post (as that's when the plot really get's going) but unfortunately I have two essays to get done by Monday, and I'm the world's worst procrastinator. ****Also, any guesses on Arthur? Heavy hints in this chapter. (evil grin)**


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N: Enter the villains! In our fifth installment, the authoress finally manages to find the plot. Introducing King Useless, Prince Smarmy and Lord Nasty…**

**5.**

The atmosphere in the great hall was stifling. Heady candles bled wax onto delicate iron spindles, flames sputtering hotly in the thick air. The pungent aroma of roasted meat clashed with the sweet tang of fruit and wine, making Merlin feel more than a little disorientated. He recalled Gaius once accusing him of being able to get drunk on _'one whiff of a barmaid's skirt' _but honestly, this was ridiculous.

Shifting restlessly, Merlin frowned at the back of the Prince's head from his traditional position, a step behind and to the right of the royal chair. The intermittent dapple shade of candlelight and shadows doused Arthur's golden hair with a flickering halo, the blackness creeping into the hollows of his cheeks making him look gaunt. Merlin felt the sickly cold fingers of worry play teasingly at his insides. Arthur's knuckles were bloodless as his grip on the dark mahogany beneath his fingers seemed to tighten impossibly. If _Arthur, _Supreme Overlord of the Oblivious Uninformed, was apprehensive, then Merlin certainly should be.

He hated feasts and celebrations like this. They were a breeding ground for poisoned wine, hidden daggers, and _falling chandeliers _for the love of Camelot. There were about a hundred and one potential threats to Arthur, and keeping a constant eye on the Prince while simultaneously trying to uphold the 'I'm just a humble servant but secretly an all powerful Warlock, but don't mind me' charade, was exhausting.

A tinny fanfare sounded, and the doors were flung wide open as the clumping of many booted feet approached the hall "Presenting King Balor of Baldor, your majesty." The entire hall fell silent, as an arrayed blur of colours and shapes came marching round the columns framing the doorway and came to a halt just inside. Merlin nearly choked as he laid eyes on quite the oddest diplomatic party he had ever seen.

They were all dressed in the most striking mix of colours imaginable; forest greens with ocean blues and pastel pinks, and their clothing was an array of flamboyant silks and taffeta and some kind of ribbed material Merlin had never seen before. They seemed to glisten like the shimmer of water on a lake as they approached, and Merlin had to blink, blinded as the candlelight rebounded off the glint of the copious amounts of gold and silver jewellery that adorned their necks, arms, ears and…well, everywhere imaginable.

"'_Spotty, pre-pubescent outcast' _of the Albion lands, huh?" he murmured awestruck in Arthur's ear. The Prince said nothing. Merlin glanced over to see Uther, mouth agape, hastily regain his composure "Party of Baldor." He said, a little stiffly, inclining his head slightly as he cleared his throat "You are most welcome."

A deep, booming laugh sounded from somewhere in the centre of the disorganized rabble, and a tall, thick set man swept through his fellows to stand assuredly before Uther's throne "Evening, Uther, evening!" he said jovially, his green eyes twinkling in a face tanned and slightly wrinkled, giving his skin the exotic look of emerald encrusted leather "My, lovely set up you've got here, lovely!" he whistled appreciatively, admiring the decorative banners and bowls of outlandish dishes laid out before him with exaggerated surprise; Merlin couldn't help a small grin as Uther bristled at the informality "Gorgeous blends of colour. You simply must refer me to your decorating staff!"

Uther seemed at a loss for words, utterly taken aback by the imposing man's bleached white grin and overbearing manner "Well, I-"

"Some other time, perhaps, then!" the man, Balor, Merlin recalled, cut across the King of Camelot with another booming laugh, the thick gold links at his waist jingling merrily in accompaniment. Although he was evidently the King of this illusive far away land, he wore no visible crown, only an enormous signet ring on his left hand and a ruby the size of a swan's egg around his neck. He was also seemingly one of the only members of the party to sport a beard, black, curled and tightly clipped into a neat point at his chin.

"May I present my partner, Allena." King Balor brought forward an elegant woman with long, nut-brown hair that fell to her knees, who curtseyed with a demure smile. Merlin noticed with some shock that instead of a long, full dress, she wore simple leggings and riding boots not dissimilar from Arthur's hunting clothes. Balor grinned manically as the Lady Allena went through a rather odd set of formalities, offering an engraved cup with a deep red liquid to Morgana before adorning her hair with a wreath of lacey leaves and red and white berries. Morgana accepted the ritual with her ever enduring good graces, and smiled appreciatively through her confusion.

Meanwhile, Balor reverently brought forth a man with neat, straw coloured hair to his shoulders, a strong chin and sky blue eyes "This," his eyes gleamed in the semi-darkness, his expressive face softened with a look of utter devotion "Is my consort, Filius." He looked around proudly before slipping a comfortable arm around his fellow's waist. _Lower _waist.

There was a ringing silence. Merlin watched with interest as Uther's face turned chalk white, then slowly began to redden. Wait, had King Balor just said _consort?_

"Balor." The young man, Filius, murmured, his cheeks colouring, smacking the King on the arm in the familiar manner of easy lovers "Be discreet." He pulled himself gently free of King Balor's smirking hold and approached the high table with an apologetic air "Your majesty, a gift." He said, and with great ceremony proffered a beautiful bejeweled dagger to Uther.

Merlin caught Gwen's eye from across the room, and they grinned in mutual amused confusion. Merlin did not know much about Camelot's standing on…more unconventional types of relationships. From the occasional suspicious manly groans coming from the stables and the absence of certain pairs of Knight's or squires at any given time, it…happened. But it was hardly common, and was generally frowned upon. There were no outright laws against it, but from the look on Uther's face as he accepted the token dagger with gritted teeth, there soon would be.

Finally, Balor brought forward a lithe young man with a tumble of black curls and a thin mouth "My son, by Lady Allena, Prince Catalan." The King said, proudly, giving the young man a gentle shove in the small of the back.

Merlin slowly frowned.

Prince Catalan looked to be around Arthur's age; though quite a bit less muscled and a lot more dignified. His angled features were reminiscent of his Father's bold facial structure, but the paleness of his skin, the softness of his eyes and the slightly feline grace in his limbs made it evident that he favoured his Mother's genetics. He had an oddly timid, mousey look about him that did not befit the stereotypical image of a Prince at all, and seemed shy and out of place standing under such scrutiny.

And he wouldn't stop _staring _at Arthur.

"Charming." Uther managed to grit out with forced civility "My son, Prince Arthur." He gestured carelessly to Arthur who, Merlin noted with increased concern, did not react at all "The Lady Morgana."

Prince Catalan shuffled forward nervously, eyes flitting wildly about "My lady." he muttered hastily, bowing low, before turning, very slowly, to face the chair to the right of Uther's throne "Prince…Arthur Pendragon." He said, breathlessly, staring unblinkingly at Arthur with a tangibly awed intensity that elicited the Crown Prince to finally raise his sullen gaze. Arthur rose dejectedly to his feet, and inclined his head shortly.

"I am honoured…to meet you at last." Catalan said softly, eyes roving over Arthur's face like he was drinking the Crown Prince in. Merlin moved closer quietly, just enough so he could gauge Arthur's reaction. He was surprised to find that apart from a slight quirk to the Prince's lips, Arthur's features betrayed absolutely nothing of his feelings. His eyes were dark and emotionless, and Merlin shivered suddenly despite the heat.

"Likewise." Arthur said, not coldly, but with a sharp edge to his tone. A small smile wove delight across Prince Catalan's thin, unnaturally red lips, his face lighting up at the acknowledgement. Encouraged, he moved closer, holding out a burnished silver object as he moved "Please, accept this offering." He said, reverently, before grasping Arthur's wrist without warning and slipping the cool metal ring around it.

Arthur visibly flinched. Blood beat harshly in Merlin's temple as his pulse quickened.

It was a delicate silver circlet fashioned in the shape of a laurel, with thin winding vines and leaves interspersed with tiny fragments of precious stones. It looked distinctly out of place on Arthur's battle-worn wrist, Merlin thought with uncharacteristic disdain. A sudden look of surprise crossed Catalan's features, and his fingers lingered on Arthur's wrist. Merlin looked also, and felt a jolt of sickly shock as he noticed the dried red stain of a recently formed scab scarring Arthur's pale skin.

_Arthur, you idiot! _Merlin thought darkly, catching the flash of a concealed blade up the Prince's wrist in the dim light _I've told you to be careful with that thing! _Catalan, meanwhile, tsked softly and gave Arthur a look of familiar concern "You should take better care of yourself, Prince Arthur." His fingertips moved to probe the wound.

_**MINE!**_

A surge of uncontrollable rage coursed through Merlin's veins like a plague, and he took a sudden gulp of air as he felt magic hum at his fingertips. He watched horrified as the bracelet now fastened around Arthur's wrist burned with a sudden burst of angry electric blue heat, and Prince Catalan snatched his now bruised fingers back, confused. Merlin glanced quickly at Arthur who, thankfully, seemed to have neither felt nor noticed anything. Following Catalan's retreat the fading magic seemed to glow a protective and somehow self-satisfied pink before it faded completely. He shook his head, his thoughts sluggish, and winced as he felt a sharp pain in his own palms. He looked down and was astonished to see that his hands had balled into fists, and his nails were digging mercilessly into his calloused palms. He winced, breathed deeply.

_Calm; focus._

He was worried for Arthur, he told himself soothingly, even as that deep, rawly powerful essence in his head growled that Arthur was _his_. No, no! Arthur was his to _protect_. And that…_thing _might be cursed. Yes. That was it.

"You have my thanks." Arthur said, eyebrows fractionally raised. Catalan nodded, hesitated, and gave the bracelet a wary glance before bowing unnecessarily low and returning to his Father's side.

Uther turned an unattractive shade of purple as Merlin fumed.

"High Court of Camelot: allies, friends, brothers." Balor began, waving at his courtiers to seat themselves "We come together today to celebrate a most momentous day in both our countries histories. The day we…"

Merlin felt a tug at his sleeve as Balor launched into his speech, and found Arthur's burning eyes boring into his.

"Wine. _Now._" The Prince hissed, and Merlin nodded sympathetically, pouring a healthy amount of alcohol into Arthur's cup, which the Prince immediately downed in one long gulp and raised his chalice for a refill.

Merlin obliged, and wrinkled his nose at the band now adorning Arthur's wrist "The cuff is…" he couldn't help a slightly mischievous smile "nice."

"No." Arthur snapped, and immediately received a warning glare from his Father "No Merlin, the cuff is _not_ nice, and do you know why the cuff is _not_ nice?" he took another desperate draught and slammed the empty cup down on the table "The cuff is not nice because the cuff is not a cuff, it is a _bracelet._" He fixed his manservant with a scathing look "And who wears bracelets, _Merlin?_"

Merlin swallowed, feeling the Prince's sarcasm singe his hair "Uh…g-girls, sire?"

"Precisely." Arthur said, glowering "_Girls_." He sat hunched in his chair, tense as a bowstring on the verge of snapping.

"Calm yourself, sire." Merlin said, soothingly, placing a tentative hand on the Prince's shoulder. Arthur immediately relaxed at his touch "Is this what you meant? When you said about…?"

Arthur nodded wordlessly, and looked suddenly so tired and fraught that Merlin felt his go out to his friend in sympathy. He squeezed the Prince's shoulder gently "It'll be over soon, Arthur. I promise." He wasn't entirely sure where the words came from, but they seemed right. And as Arthur sat up a little straighter and drew in a shaky breath, Merlin couldn't bring himself to regret his momentary openness.

"Yeah, right." The Prince muttered, shrugging Merlin's hand off "I wouldn't mind so much if they didn't all _stare _like they're bloody _fish_ and I'm a worm on a hook."

Merlin looked around the hall. The Baldorean's did seem to have an unpleasant habit of staring. Didn't these people ever blink?! Most of their glimmering gazes were transfixed either upon either King Balor or the Camelot High Table. Catalan, Merlin noticed with a distasteful glare, was _still _staring unrelentingly at Arthur.

His neck prickled unpleasantly, and he felt the familiar sense of unease that someone was watching. He scanned the sea of faces before him, and his heart nearly jumped out of his chest when his gaze met a narrowed pair of cerulean eyes regarding him unabashed from the farthest corner of the hall. The man's pupils were yawning coal-black pools in the semi-darkness, and for a moment Merlin could do nothing but stare himself, mouth slightly open.

The man, who looked to be in his thirties, was leaning nonchalantly against a pillar, half concealed in the shadows, and had a bored, arrogant posture that made him a misfit amongst his easy-going, friendly Baldorean fellows. His mouse-brown hair was tied haphazardly back from his high cheekbones, allowing a few wayward strands to fall carelessly across his features. He looked entirely ordinary, but something about him set Merlin's teeth on edge. Perhaps the hungry look in his eyes. Or the fact that, like every other God-damned Baldorean, he wouldn't stop _staring!_

Merlin abandoned all pretence and glared at the man. To his great dismay, the man simply smirked in response, then lifted two fingers to his lips and blew an audacious kiss Merlin's way_, _then _winked._ Merlin very nearly spluttered aloud, and overbalanced, grabbing the arm of Arthur's chair to stay upright, completely stunned. Arthur turned his head sharply and gave him a quizzical look.

"…propose, in the tradition of our culture, a celebratory dance before our bellies are too full for exertion." King Balor finished with a flourish, and grinned as Lady Allena rose promptly from her seat "Aha, it seems my Lady has already made her choice!"

Lady Allena approached the high table, eyes twinkling "Your majesty, King Uther." She inclined her head gracefully, and extended a hand "Will you accompany me to the floor?"

Uther, having finally finished his follicular exploration of the rainbow and seemingly regained his composure, smiled widely and rose also from his seat "I would be honoured, Lady Allena." He turned to King Balor "Provided I am not stealing you from the attentions of your husband."

Balor let out a hoot of laughter as Uther and Allena made their way hand in hand to the centre of the hall "Oh, believe me, Uther, it is not _my_ attentions you should be worrying about." A slight murmur of puzzlement spread among the courtiers of Camelot, but Balor ignored them, turning to his son "Catalan, my boy?"

Prince Catalan blanched, and shot a sudden, desperate look towards the back of the hall, in the exact corner where Merlin's mysterious eye-stalker was situated. Said offender rolled his eyes and, his smirk widening, strode forward into the light.

"If I may, your majesty." His voice was smooth but clear and reminiscent of rich, mulled beverages and silky decadence "I do but beg the Lady Morgana's company."

Beside Merlin, Arthur went suddenly rigid and seemed to turn to stone.

"You, Lord Reylan?" Balor said, incredulously, and for the first time a frown marred his jovial features. After a moment, however, it smoothed and he tutted a reprimand "Oh, very well, you little scoundrel, if she will have you."

Morgana hesitated, looking shrewdly between Prince Catalan and Lord Reylan, before smiling politely "I certainly will."

Balor sighed melodramatically "Seems you've been pipped to the post, my son. Who will you choose?"

Pink rose in Prince Catalan's cheeks. Merlin's eyes narrowed. Oh, no. Don't even think about it.

"Prince Arthur? May I have the honour of a dance?"

The silence stretched. Very slowly Arthur raised his bowed head and looked blankly at Catalan, then to his Father. Uther, jaw set, grimaced, but nodded reluctantly. Arthur rose stiffly from his chair and made his way doggedly around the high table, every step echoing with condemnation. Merlin felt righteous outrage blind his senses. How _dare _they humiliate Arthur like this!

"A most gracious acquiescence." Balor trilled, and spread his arms wide "Now, come one, come all, and don't be shy! Rich and poor, young and old, it matters not, for we Baldorean's dance through life together!"

The music began to play, and as excited chaos descended on the celebrations Merlin could only gesture helplessly as Arthur shot him a despairing look over his shoulder. The Prince was desperately pale, and Merlin cursed his own lack of foresight as he considered whether Arthur may have come down with something. He had been acting oddly all day. Maybe Arthur had been trying to communicate that he didn't feel well in that annoying, roundabout subtext-y way that inevitably went soaring right over Merlin's head. Damn the Prince and his pride!

Merlin sighed, wringing his hands and resolving to keep an even closer eye than usual on Arthur this evening. Which would be difficult, as he usually watched Arthur with the intensity of a workaholic vulture with no social life. "Well, at least things can't get much worse." He muttered mutinously.

"Greetings, stranger." Came a silky voice from behind him, and somewhere beneath the very foundations of Camelot, someone chuckled a smug, scaly laugh.

**A/N: Last line copyrighted to Obi-wan Kenobi. Sorry Obi! Hurrah for evil OC's! Hope I got the characterisation right. I can't believe it took four bloody chapters for the plot to come along. Really sorry, guys! Next time on P&P: does the Crown Prince have to choke a biatch?! Hee! Comment, for the love of Camelot, and remember, keep the slash secret! …or not :D**


	6. Chapter 6

**WARNING: First section of this post is Reylan POV. And it isn't too pleasant. Hell, I freaked MYSELF out when writing it XD watch this space! This is where things start to get nasty, folks.**

**6.**

Some men are born hunters.

They crave dominance as surely as they crave bread and water. Their lust for violence pollutes their blood like a drug. They assert their power with pure brutality, seducing with honeyed caresses, gorging themselves on blood and fear and sweat. Despair is but a sacred melody to their gratuitous ears, and they prey on the weak with merciless contempt, watching, waiting, biding, salivating. They ache in the darkness for that helpless writhing body beneath their own, the rising pitch, a high crescendo, a squeal, a _squeal_ and yes yes yes, oh GOD, the _**kill.**_

_Candles flicker, people bicker and the night gets sicker _the Predator muses, his mind awash with idleness. The pale, creamy surface of burnished ivory skin beneath his itching fingertips stretched across too-brittle bones, the empty promise of soft curves and buxom bosoms failing to entice his blessed, blessed heat. He hungered for strong pearly bones with golden marrow, the broad, breakable bow of thick-set collarbones, the trembling planes of the armoured breast and the raw ecstasy of the dying light in a broken man's spirit.

The Predator's blood boils, unwatched. He yearns for a challenge.

He casts his drooling gaze about, for that delectable scent, that alluring hum of sorcery and innocence that had teased his tongue just minutes before. His sights alight upon dark curling hair and marbled cheeks and squall-grey eyes flecked with liquid gold. His yearning bloats, his desires aquiver. _Yes _he thrums _**he**__ is the one. _

"My Lady, I must beg your indulgence." His silken courtesy parrots with accomplished skill "Your brilliance is simply too blinding for such a lowly subject. Lord Silar!" a snap of his fingers, a rippling smile and his burden is cast off to another angler "With reluctance, I relinquish my prize. You will prove to be an opponent more worthy, I trust."

He approaches, slowly, slowly, unseen, blessedly unseen. He can smell the Golden Prince on the Sorcerer, the harsh swill of leather and sweet honey and chamomile oils smothering the boy's own essence of lavender and clean green grass and smoke and hay. His tongue darts out to wet anticipative lips. He longs to cleave the boy in two, to lay him bear and _break _him.

"Greetings, stranger." He breathes out heat onto the soft shell of an exposed ear. The specimen was desire incarnate.

&&&

Merlin very nearly dropped the goblet he was cradling as he felt a sudden rush of air against the side of his face, and whirled about, heart slamming painfully against his ribs. He gasped as he found his face inches from a pair of clear, hungry blue eyes and a predatory grin.

Oh, great. Not this joker again.

"Hello-" he managed to choke out, his sense of propriety overruling his urge to punch the smug stranger in the mouth "I mean, good evening, my Lord." The man…oh God, what his name again? Paylan? Treylan? Oh, screw it. Merlin mentally christened the man 'Sir Creep-a-lot' and backpedaled hastily. His skin prickled with unease, the cold pit of dread in his stomach suddenly turning sub-zero. What on earth did this bozo want with _him, _anyway?

The man kept uncannily still for a few moments, his eyes roving up and down Merlin's body with a long, suggestive sweep of heavy brown lashes "Good evening." He murmured, delicately, his smile widening almost imperceptively. Merlin felt a sudden uncomfortable affiliation for an unsuspecting turkey on the way to the Yuletide slaughter "Lord Reylan." The words rolled off his lips like a profession of adoration, and as he bent slightly towards him Merlin caught a strong scent of ginger spice and iron "You are Prince Arthur's…" Something dark flickered in the man's gaze like a sudden burst of flame "…manservant, correct?"

Merlin cleared his throat and fervently wished he had not chosen to stand alone at the far end of the hall "Yes."

"Manservant." The errant Lord's smooth brow furrowed slightly as he seemed to mull the word over in his mind "What does that mean, in this land, I wonder?" he said, lightly. _Too _lightly.

Merlin's eyes narrowed in response and he straightened up a little, and as the creases in his overskirt unwrinkled the emblazoned silver dragon seemed unfurl itself and rear threateningly "It's a little like a squire." He said, shortly, trying desperately to keep his tone as close to polite as possible "I wash his clothes, saddle his horses, clean his armour, that sort of thing." He raised a daring eyebrow "Why? What does it mean in _your_ country?"

Lord Reylan blinked, then threw back his head and let out a harsh bark of laughter that made Merlin jump. Smirking, he carefully folded his arms and leant nonchalantly back against the wall, shoulder's angled towards Merlin, seeming to box him in. The young Warlock felt a tentative shudder reverberate up his spine. Reylan leant his head in close, casting a foreboding shadow across Merlin's face.

"What do you think of your Prince?" he asked, softly, breathing the heady scent of wine across Merlin's nose.

_Arthur…_The heated presence in Merlin's head growled and snarled an incomprehensible warning. The Warlock caught the sudden burst of raw power just in time, wrangling it down to a subdued, festering sore clawing at his innards "I'm a servant, my Lord. I'm not really entitled to an opinion." He said, guardedly, struggling not to attempt to back away further.

There was a glint of enamel in the candlelight "But you like him?"

"Well enough." Merlin's heart beat furiously in his chest, pressure building in his head. Lord Reylan carefully moved his right hand up the wall to rest right beside Merlin's head, and whispered breathily "Prince Catalan likes him very much."

Merlin swallowed thickly, a flinch of heat raking his stomach raw "Does he?"

Reylan smirked with unblinking intensity "Well, he is very beautiful."

The spell broke.

Merlin snorted violently and doubled over laughing, his forehead slamming into his assailant's and sending the smarmy creep reeling. Merlin, as Arthur had colourfully informed him one particularly nasty hunting incident, had an extremely thick skull "Don't let _him_ hear you say that!" he choked out, red in the face, imagining Arthur's furious princely pout at such an outrageous comment against his (already severely bruised) masculinity. He smothered his laughs helplessly into his sleeve, feeling oddly dizzy.

"Oh?" Lord Reylan's cold tone cut mercilessly through his amusement like an arrow, and Merlin quickly sobered "Why, is he foul tempered? He certainly looks it." Within seconds Reylan had snapped smoothly back to his cool rappore, smirk restored and using his dislodged state as an opportunity to lean casually even closer to Merlin, who found himself no longer intimidated and growing increasingly annoyed. Quite suddenly Reylan broke his gaze, and glanced over towards the dance floor with an unreadable expression crowding his schooled features "I doubt he has changed much." he murmured, so quietly Merlin could barely discern the words from the sputtering of a nearby drowning candle.

"What-"

Calloused hands clamped down hard on his wrists and he found himself being dragged forwards "HEY-!"

"Dance with me." The words spilled hotly across his cooled, sweaty skin like a brand, bloody lips curled at the edges like a cobra's tail a mere fraction from engulfing his own.

"E-Excuse me?!" he managed to splutter out through the shock and the tinny whistling sound of his patience reaching its limit. I mean honestly, this man was more perverted, smug and annoying than _Arthur! _…a_nd not nearly as attractive_ a small, traitorous, well repressed part of Merlin's mind piped up (which was swiftly and efficiently crushed)_. _

"Yoooou." Reylan drawled, eyes heavily lidded "What is your name?"

Merlin hesitated, and then stiffened his resolve. Arthur needed him here tonight and he'd be damned if he caused the Prince any more grief than he had endured already. _Toughen up, Merlin _he reprimanded himself mentally _you're probably going to have to deal with much worse than perverts, knowing how much this brand of destiny seems to like kicking the ironic shit out of you. _

"Merlin." He said curtly, pleased to hear his voice ring clear and defiant "My name is Merlin. And please, my Lord, you really do not want to dance with me. I am terrible at it." Reylan's grip on his wrists tightened, and Merlin fought not to wince as he felt his bones creak under the pressure "No matter." Merlin suppressed an undignified gasp as an arm slid snake-like around his waist and a hand curled possessively at his hip "Allow me to improve you!"

This was kind of horrible, twisted nightmare. It just _had _to be. Arthur was being wooed by a prissy obsessive Prince, and he, MERLIN, humble manservant, was being all but molested by some sex-deprived and possibly deranged Lord. Great. Just peachy.

_You could have bloody warned me, Arthur _he thought, darkly.

&&&

Arthur was pretty convinced that somewhere, high above the storm clouds gathering over his head, some devious omnipotent deity was laughing his holy garters off. It was the only possible explanation he could fathom for him being here, in this surreal predicament, right now. Dancing. With a man. A foreign Prince, no less. A foreign Prince who was obviously _besotted _with him. Oddly, it wasn't the fact that he was dancing with something so evidently non-female that bothered him. In fact, it was almost a relief not to have to constantly worry about stepping on delicate feminine feet and being slapped in the face for the trouble. It wasn't even that dancing with Prince Catalan (God's preserve us) was particularly unpleasant. It just didn't feel…_right. _The shoulder under his hand felt too slender, and the Prince's palm on his own just didn't seem to fit. Not like earlier, when Merlin-

_Woah, Pendragon, hold the reins on THAT thought. _Speaking of his clueless clodpole of a manservant, where had Merlin got to? He glanced surreptitiously around the hall as the dance broke into a dizzying spin, his keen eyes scanning for a shimmer of silver or a lopsided grin among the sea of hostile faces.

His heart plummeted as his eyes finally rested upon the furthermost corner behind the royal table.

_**Thump.**_

No.

_**Thump-thump.**_

No, it couldn't be. Not him.

_**Ka-thump. Ka-thump.**_

Not with _Merlin. _

There was a gentle pressure on his arm, and Arthur realised with some surprise that he had stopped moving entirely, and Catalan was regarding now him with a soft look of concern "Is something wrong, your highness?"

Bile rose in his throat. He couldn't breathe, couldn't _think. _Phantom hands pawed across his skin, leaving damp, clammy trails of sickening nakedness that turned his stomach to acid. He reeled, blood roaring in his ears, and gritted his teeth as his knees threatened to buckle beneath his weight.

"If you will excuse me, Prince Catalan." He gasped out, flushing as he found his hands suddenly gripping the other Prince's shoulders tightly. Catalan bit his lip and glanced about nervously, discreetly checking to see if anyone had noticed Arthur's sudden weakness. He smiled triumphantly and patted the Crown Prince's hand a little awkwardly as it seemed that the oblivious courtiers had, as ever, noticed nothing "Of course." He said, smiling encouragingly while slipping a subtle supporting shoulder under Arthur's and leading him away from the centre of the room "You look pale, Prince Arthur, are you well?"

_No I'm bloody NOT! _Arthur raged internally, fighting desperately to regain control of his treacherously shaking limbs _Merlin. I have to get to Merlin. _

"I am a little fatigued." He said shakily, his sense of purpose flooding liquid strength through his veins "It's stifling in here."

Prince Catalan nodded slowly, his eyes glimmering sympathetically as he carefully disentangled himself from Arthur as it became evident he could support himself "Perhaps I could accompany you back to a table?" a light flush spread across his cheeks at the informality, but he blundered on regardless "Or fetch some water to refresh you?"

"No." Arthur gritted out impatiently, but seeing the look of confused hurt filling the foreign Royal's expressive face he softened his tone "No, truly, thank you for your kindness, but I must-" he shot a worried glance towards the offending corner of the room "_consult _with my aide on a matter of great importance."

Catalan nodded understandingly, and although evidently bemused he gave a courteous smile "Very well." He bowed hesitantly "You have my most profuse thanks for your companionship."

Arthur mirrored his bow and was surprised to find himself giving a genuine reply "The pleasure was mine."

_Now, time to right a few wrongs _the Crown Prince thought scathingly, feeling a savage pleasure as his hands shook not with shock, now, but with a raw, cleansing hatred. His heart pounded deafeningly in his chest, and dark shadows danced in his head which he suppressed ruthlessly. Not now. Not right now. Please.

"Pardon the intrusion." The Prince said with an icy sweetness, stopping short as his manservant's assailant turned to face him as he approached "But if you would be so kind as to give me back my servant."

The man's eyes rolled lazily round in their sockets to rest disinterestedly on Arthur. In that brief moment's pause the Prince perceived the Lord's aggressive arm wrapped around his manservant's waist, and the freshly bruised skin on Merlin's wrists.

Blinding white-hot anger ruptured through him like a shock, and his right arm twitched as he very nearly cut the man's throat then and there.

There was a sudden snarl of pearled enamel as the offender laughed throatily in the Crown Prince's face, the polite façade pasted across his face cracking with a sneer "Do you treat all your underlings with such disdain, Prince Arthur?" his grin smoothed seamlessly into a predatory smile "I think **Merlin** here is deserving of better."

Arthur's fists shook so hard he could feel the bones shaking in their sockets _Damn him, __**bastard!**_

Then, quite suddenly, something cold and very, very dangerous settled soothingly over his anger like a shroud.

"Well, unfortunately, Lord Reylan." Arthur murmured tonelessly, a delicate warning lacing his calm "What you think is of no concern to me." With a terrifying speed the Prince clapped a hand down hard on the taller man's shoulder, and he saw Merlin wince as he heard the man's bones creak under the pressure of Arthur's white-knuckled grip "Now:" he hissed softly, almost seductively, his eyes black pits of utter loathing "unhand my aide before I **make** you."

**Muhaha! Unfortunately that's all for now folks, as unfortunately I have to finish this buggering essay on Coleridge or my English teach will kill me tomorrow, and then there will be no more P&P, EVER. Ah well. Please comment, I adore hearing all your responses, you guys are the best! 3**


	7. Chapter 7

**Who needs coffee and anti-depressants? Ficcing is my happiness drug. And it happens to be a lot safer than the alternatives! ****Warning! This chapter contains copious amounts of italics due to Arthur's insistence on thinking himself in circles. I know, I can hardly believe it myself XD just so y'all are clear, italics indicate thought, emphasis or occasionally a flashback. Also, the section from Arthur's POV is purposefully confusing so the reader can share his mental anguish. Enjoy!**

**7.**

_And I thought this couldn't possibly get any worse _Merlin thought bitterly, wishing for all the world that he could simply melt into the floor and leave the 'rough tough, save the world kinda men' to their testosterone duel. In his experience it nearly always _wasn't_ those pumped-up macho hooligans that ended up saving the day anyway, but some poor destiny-bound sod doomed to spend eternity saving said hooligans pertly muscled arse (NOT that he was bitter or anything, you understand). He winced, forcibly resisting the urge to tear himself away from the burning iron grip around his waist. This was utterly ridiculous! He wasn't some blushing virginal beauty to be fought over, he was _Merlin! _Clumsy manservant renowned throughout Camelot for ending up in the stocks five times a week!

"Arthur-" he said, firmly, recognizing the familiar cold gleam of rising temper dancing in the Prince's narrowed gaze _please don't do anything stupid…_

"Shut up, Merlin." Arthur did not even spare him a glance, eyes riveted menacingly upon the amused Lord Reylan. He…didn't look quite like Arthur. Not the Arthur Merlin knew, with the arrogance and the lewd comments, the cocky smiles and blinding self-confidence. He stood rigid in the flickering half-light, not bristling or flexing as he usually did when anticipating a round of fisticuffs. No. _This _Arthur was the Arthur who dealt cold and merciless blows in the heat of battle, who despaired and tore at himself in the face of his starving people, who stared into the gaping jaws of very death and smiled.

And yet, that glimpse of Arthur's potential glory was marred now by chinks in the burnished façade. Against the pitch-black shine of leather Arthur's skin looked deathly pale, like coal on snow, and the barest brush of crimson in his cheeks spread steadily like bloodstains. There was a desperate frailty in the way his bones seemed to rattle in their fleshy prison as the Prince shook with barely controlled fury, something foreign and cruel polluting the Prince's normally kind eyes with darkness.

Arthur's cornflower-blue irises slid briefly across to meet Merlin's, and just for a moment the old Arthur broke free from the torrent of emotions fouling his countenance "I never thought I'd find myself defending _your _honour this evening." He said, with the barest quirk of a smile playing at his bloodless lips.

Merlin released a long-held breath as his shoulders slumped in relief. Banter. They could cope with banter "My honour is perfectly well protected, thank you very much!" he protested, a little weakly. But Arthur smirked in response, and if Arthur could smirk, then this situation was either about to be resolved or go very, _very_ wrong.

"Prince Ar-_thur_." Reylan purred, the words oozing off his tongue with such a perverse mixture of loathing and desire that Merlin bodily shuddered. He had the sudden urge to scrub every patch of his exposed skin raw, or to just repeat Arthur's name over and over and over until the foul blemish of the Lord's voice had left it "It is just as I suspected." The clutch at Merlin's hip suddenly tightened painfully as he was jerked forwards violently. His heart froze in his chest as he looked up.

"You really have not changed at all, Little Pendragon." Reylan breathed huskily across Arthur's unflinching features, and Merlin cried out a strangled half-warning as the foreign Lord's clawed hand suddenly snatched Arthur's chin from the air and yanked the Prince sprawlingly forwards "As _resistant_ as ever." he cooed condescendingly, then sighed delicately in mock lament, lips curling into a sneer.

_Get off him! _Merlin began to struggle in Reylan's vice-like grip, breathing fast _and get off ME!_ _I'm an all powerful sorcerer, you know! I may not look it but make me angry and I will BLAST you with my…um…magic-y wrath! _Arthur was making no effort to remove the Lord's offending hand, despite the fact Reylan's fingers were gripping his skin so hard Merlin could see shadowed purple bruising contaminating the Prince's ivory pallor. The sight of it made Merlin drunk with hatred, and he felt tumultuous waves of power crash deafeningly against his barely restrained self-control.

Something snapped. "Let" Arthur hissed, thunder rumbling murderously in his tone "him" metal flashed in the darkness "_go_."

They all stood, perfectly still, statuesque, breath mingling in the electric air, Reylan's hand on Arthur's chin and Arthur's fingers at the foreign Lord's exposed throat. The tip of the Prince's hitherto concealed dagger was poised daintily against the pulsating rhythm of Reylan's jugular artery.

Silence. One beat. Two.

Reylan slowly licked his lips, and Merlin got the distinct impression it wasn't due to nerves "You present a most persuasive argument, my liege." The dagger broke skin, and an ooze of blood welled and trickled into the crevices of Reylan's collar. Merlin was repulsed as he saw the sudden flash of lustful ecstasy in the man's eyes "Forgive me, but I must say that I am a little disappointed." He leant his head so close to Arthur's their noses nearly touched "Only a fool favours the cold lick of metal over the civility of the tongue."

Arthur snarled like an animal "Perhaps we should see how civil your tongue remains when I _**cut**_" he jerked the blade deeper in emphasis, Reylan's blood dribbling over the Prince's fingers "it out, won't we?"

Reylan grinned, drinking in Arthur's anger like a drug, releasing his grip on the Prince's defiant chin. His eyes roved over the bruised imprint that remained on Arthur's skin, and moved to brush the pad of his thumb against the wounds.

Suddenly, he froze.

"You don't want to do that, _sir_." Merlin said, softly, resisting the urge to crush the man's wrist in his trembling grip "The Prince can drop a man stone dead faster than the beat of a hummingbird's wing." Out of the corner of his vision he saw Arthur raise an eyebrow and roll his eyes in annoyance. Alright, so perhaps that had been a little melodramatic, but he'd be damned if he let some slimy Baldorean pervert defile _his_ destiny. Wait, what?

Meanwhile, Reylan was busy being lecherous and vile. Big bloody surprise. "Can he, indeed?" he chuckled, the sound a low tremor in his chest "I would very much like to see that."

Prince and Manservant's gazes flashed a warning in eerie synchrony.

Eventually Reylan, seemingly sensing he was outnumbered (or growing bored, as was the impression he attempted to give) laughed easily and stepped carefully away, sliding his hand lingeringly across the small of Merlin's back as he did so "Ah, very well, although it grieves me." He bent forwards in a less than genuine bow, smiling patronizingly at Arthur "_Anything _to appease ourpouting Princess here."

He turned gracefully and breezed around them, pausing for just a moment to place his lips beside Merlin's ear "I will remember…Merlin." The words ghosted across his skin like a caress "It has been utterly _delightful_ to make your acquaintance." And he was gone, vanishing behind the clouded screen of decadence formed by the mingling courtiers.

There was a long pause, then when he could no longer stand the thickness of the quiet, Merlin tentatively spoke "C-creep." He smiled slightly as he recalled saying those exact same words what felt like centuries ago, when they had faced Knight Valiant and his devious snake-infested shield. He frowned. At least that enemy had been simple to vanquish; this Lord Reylan…the threat was so painfully tangible, yet so terribly difficult to grasp. Merlin swallowed thickly and placed a hesitant hand on the Prince's unmoving arm. Arthur still hadn't lowered his dagger.

"Arthur?" he murmured softly, and the Prince snapped violently out of his reverie and glared heatedly at the floor, seeming to think hard for a moment. He slid the blade hastily back up his left sleeve, and Merlin tactfully chose to ignore how Arthur's fingers were trembling.

"Not here." The Prince hissed, jaw set, and his fingers around Merlin's bruised wrists formed a cool circlet that burned and chilled and kissed his skin as Arthur led him away from the heat and into the shadows.

&&&

Despite the oppressive heat and the sweat clinging stubbornly to his skin, Arthur felt strangely cold. His mind seemed to lag several seconds behind his limbs, giving movement that odd, dreamlike quality like he was wading through treacle with lead boots on. He shivered uncontrollably as though suffering a bout of heavy fever, and there was an odd ringing in his ears. The sensation was unpleasantly like a combination of being drunk and in shock simultaneously. Actually, perhaps that was precisely what it was. He had had lots of wine. And quite a few shocks. Hm.

_Are you a brave boy, little Pendragon?_

He closed his eyes tightly, scrunching up his face so hard it hurt. He bit his lip and dug his nails viciously into the barely healed scab on his palm, and let out a shaky breathe as the cleansing relief of the pain swept over him. Don't think about it. Not now, not here. _Focus._

He navigated through the hordes of dancers with some difficulty. They spun in and out of his vision, swaying and stepping and twirling in a dizzying mess of colour that made Arthur feel suddenly sick. The floor was uneven and seemed to fall right out from under him with every misjudged step, and he cursed inwardly. It felt like he was standing on the deck of a ship, for crying out loud!

"Keep still, idiot floor! I'm trying to walk in peace here!" He muttered, and Merlin gave him a disturbed and slightly concerned look. At _last, _they broke free of the heaving mass and slipped through an open doorway out into the blessed cool of a draughty corridor. It felt as though he had suddenly been submerged into icy water as the chill night air slapped his cheeks, teasing at his hair. He took a deep, steadying breath, and the tiny part of his brain that was still capable of comprehensible thought wondered why he hadn't let go of Merlin's wrist yet. The quiet solidity and gentle warmth of Merlin's goosebumped flesh against his fingers was a comfort that grounded his tenuous grip sanity.

They reached a small, secluded alcove at the end of the corridor beside an archway leading to the courtyard, and Arthur watched in fascination as his own hands seemingly slammed his manservant against a column "Merlin, you bloody idiot!" was that his voice speaking? It must be, his mouth was moving… "What the hell were you thinking?! Have you absolutely no sense of self-preservation?!"

"He asked me to dance!" Merlin's protesting and slightly distraught features seemed to contort themselves into grotesque manipulations, then multiply confusingly…wonderful…just what he needed, multiple Merlin's…where was he again? "And on YOUR order, _sire, _I could not refuse!"

"_My_ order?" he forced the words out with some difficulty, his tongue feeling weighed down by some invisible force. He squinted through the darkness at Merlin's-all the Merlin's-faces. Black spots crept into the corners of his vision and he felt the threatening onset of unconsciousness hang over him, but gritted his teeth and forced the slimy shadowed hands to the back of his mind. Just a little longer.

_I'm ORDERING you to be there tonight, and you __**will**__ accept any opportunities to dance, is that clear?_

"Oh. OH." He blinked thickly, and leant more heavily against Merlin's shoulders, now effectively pinned to the wall. That aggravatingly awake part of his brain kept insisting he was being inappropriate, but he couldn't quite summon up the energy to listen to it. Besides, he'd had quite enough of being 'appropriate' for one evening already. "God, what a mess. Father will kill me." And there went his voice again, going awol when he was in the middle of a thought process. Curse it, did nothingobey him anymore?!

…_I think I might be just a little bit drunk right now…_

"You could have warned me." Merlin's disembodied voice sulked. His own disobedient tones sounded in response "Of what?" _Merlin's collarbone is digging into my palm _he mused detachedly, giving up all hope of controlling his mouth _I should get him to eat more, take better care of him… _and now he knew for CERTAIN that he was delirious and/or insane.

"Them. The Baldorean…thing."

_Oh, yes? And what was I supposed to say? __**By the way, Merlin, about those diplomats that are coming, there's just the slightest possibility they might pin you to a wall and try to deflower you. I trust that won't be a problem for you, will it?**_ He thought, miserably, vaguely impressed that he was still able to be sarcastic even when severely mentally hampered.

"It would have been…difficult to explain." Said sane Arthur, evasively.

_I feel sick. _Thought insane Arthur, unhelpfully.

From somewhere far removed he watched detachedly as Merlin carefully pried his hand off the manservant's bony shoulder, fixing him with a piercing gaze that made the hairs on the back of his neck prickle. "Lord Reylan-" he began, guardedly, and Arthur mentally groaned through the fuggy haze _and now I feel even __**sicker. **_

A very much welcomed rush of clarity came over him

"_Merlin._" He grabbed his manservant by the arms and shook him, because…because Merlin had to _listen, _because…because this was important. Yes. Very important "You are NOT to go near him." He said, firmly, then frowned "Go near Lord Reylan, I mean." Because if he did, Merlin might- " _Ever _again. I am ordering you as your master and as your friend, to stay away from him. Don't ask my why, just do it." _Please, Merlin._ "Swear it to me."

Merlin's confused grey eyes peered solemnly out of the blackness "I swear it, Arthur."

Arthur slumped, relief sapping his energy "Good." Wow, thinking clearly took much more effort than he had anticipated "…good. That's…good." Little pinpricks of opalescent stars danced merrily around Merlin's shadowed head. And he had a distinct feeling they shouldn't be.

"Arthur, are you alright?" worn yet gentle hands against his face "You're white as a sheet." An overwhelming scent of lavender and herbs, clean chopped wood and fresh grass, forests and clear mountain streams. Merlin's presence engulfed him like a shroud as the full weight of his exhaustion crashed over him in waves.

"It's the wine. Just…the wine…" his own voice said from somewhere far above him "Be alright…in a moment."

"Perhaps you should sit down-"

"Hot." His whole body was on fire "M'dizzy." He swayed dangerously, teetering on the edge of the yawning black precipice of unconsciousness "Reeal…dizzy…"

Suddenly, he was falling.

"_**Arthur!**_"

Darkness.

&&&

The Crown Prince of Baldor sighed quietly, cupping his hands before his mouth and blowing repeatedly into them, rocking back and forth on his heels in a vain attempt to coax some warmth into his aching limbs. It was an interesting place, this…Camelot. Although it did seem to be a rather troublesome mess of contradictions. The people acted with constant adherence to propriety, yet the moment the lip of a chalice reached their mouths they were all swearing like sailors. It was all very befuddling, and almost entirely different from how he had envisioned it.

He let out a long, slow breath, and watched enchanted as the hot contents of his lungs mingled with the frosty air, condensing into an ethereal pearled mist. He smiled and raised a hand to the object that hung by a leather string about his neck, then murmured _**ferrera**_: eagle. The mist reared and rose on sculpted wings towards the heavens.

"You should be more careful." a familiar, slightly slurred voice called out from a patch of darkness at the bottom of the steps on which he stood "Sorcery is outlawed in this land."

"Reylan?" he called, squinting in the half light, and frowned "What are you doing out here?"

There came a rustling of material, a soft curse, before the familiar swaggering step emerged purposefully from a sheltered crevice of stone "Call of nature." Catalan could not see the smirk, but he could practically smell it in the air. That and the pungent reek of alcohol and rich food which became stronger as Reylan drew closer "Couldn't locate the latrines."

The Crown Prince wrinkled his nose and tugged his emerald-green cloak across his mouth and nose "You are disgusting, you know."

The smirk widened "So I've been told." A heavy, slightly unsteady arm was slung about his slender shoulders, dragging Catalan's head over so that he was cheek to cheek with the Lord "And how fares our lovestruck little Princeling! The pursuit went well, I trust?"

Catalan flushed and averted his gaze, absently rubbing at some Lordly spittle that had landed on his face "I don't know what you're talking about."

Reylan laughed harshly right beside his ear with the fumbling ineptitude of the far-gone drunkard "Afford me a little credit, Catalan." He reached up and pinched the Prince's cheek with a leather-gloved grip "I know that look in your eyes."

Catalan wriggled free with some difficulty, ducking out from under his fellow Baldorean's enormous shoulder "And I know the look in _yours._" He frowned and attempted to inject some authority into his tone "Don't address me so familiarly."

"Why?" Reylan drawled, batting his eyelashes and pouting in mock-hurt "Are we not friends anymore?"

Catalan shuddered, and felt the heavy weight of apprehension settle about him "You're not…on the prowl again…I mean, on a hunt…are you?"

Pointed teeth were bared menacingly in the moonlight "I may be."

"Reylan…" Catalan said warningly, feel a cold trickle of fear halt his breathing. There was pause, and then Reylan laughed again, his arrogance driving out his cruelty "Ah, don't fret it, precious. I won't interfere with your little love affair." He paused, his grin widening "Much."

Catalan's eyes narrowed "Or jeapardise the diplomacy?"

"Only a little."

The Crown Prince huffed, and pinched the bridge of his nose, feeling the onset of a headache. He fervently prayed for his sleep to be undisturbed that night. If the visions of fire and brimstone and reptilian eyes with slitted pupils came again, he would not be fit for the hunting excursion come the morrow.

Reylan snorted and leant against the doorway "Did you take your tonic this evening? I will not be held responsible for you going all wobbly, _again. _I've done my turn with the thumbscrews far too many times for your sake already."

Catalan shot his fellow a scathing look "Did you take _yours_?"

Reylan sighed dramatically "Touché." He muttered, defeated, and retrieved two thin, finely spun glass vials from the depths of his tunic, holding the slighter one out to his Prince "Together, then?"

Catalan said nothing, silently uncorking the vial and downing the entirety of the foul liquid in one large gulp.

"Oh, and a word of advice." Reylan said absently, eying his vial with distaste "You don't want to pursue the Camelot Prince." A glimmer of that fragile insanity filled his gaze "Nobody wants to play with a toy that's already been broken by someone else."

Grimacing, he tipped his head back and drank deeply.

&&&

**Sorry for the delay, peeps, I had to deal with 33 screaming 10 year olds for 2 hours yesterday night, and they sucked the ficcing energy right out of me.**


	8. Chapter 8

**In which Merlin encounters many obstacles on his quest to get Arthur into bed (no, really)…**

**8.**

Arthur pitched heavily forwards without warning, and Merlin was more than a little surprised when he suddenly found himself with an armful of passed-out Prince. His heart plummeted down into his stomach with a leaden dread as he staggered under Arthur's weight, bile rising in his throat as his brain moved a mile a minute:

_What is it?! Is it poison, stab wound, spell, what?! Is he dead, oh god breathingpulseheartbeat!_

"Arthur! Arthur?!" He called as loud as he dared in the silence of the draughty alcove, gingerly patting Arthur's flushed cheeks in an attempt to rouse him. The Prince's sweat-slicked forehead was a sticky heat against Merlin's collar, the cold tip of Arthur's nose digging into his neck. Merlin hastily lowered the intermingled tangle of limbs to the ground, sweeping one arm under the Prince's knees and the other around the shoulder blades with uncharacteristic grace. _He mustn't touch the floor _he thought, though quite why he couldn't fathom, and he quickly transferred the weight of Arthur's torso to his bent right knee in order to free one hand, which flew immediately to Arthur's clammy neck. _Please don't let him be dead God please no I can't lose him now…_

A beat pulsated beneath his fingers. Gentle, slightly haggard gusts of warmth caressed the skin beneath Merlin's ear, eliciting goosebumps and sending crystalline smoke dwindling upwards into the chill air. Blessed life thrummed quietly in the pale, precious form he cradled to his chest, and he fell heavily back against the reassuring solidity of stone behind him, breathing hard.

"_Prat._" He hissed, by which he meant _don't scare me like that. _Why did Arthur always do this to him? The Dragon really had not been exaggerating when he'd warned that protecting the Prince would be a trial. The idiot attracted more trouble than a wasp in a beehive. With the immediate panic subsiding, the warlock began a methodical search for the cause of his Prince's sudden fainting spell, pushing the hair carefully back from Arthur's brow to check for fever while trying desperately to ignore how horribly lifeless the body in his arms was.

"Arthur, damn it, wake up." He muttered distractedly, frowning as he found the Prince's skin to be warmer than it should be. He slipped a hand into the fine hairs at the back of Arthur's neck in order to support his head "Arthur!" he shook him lightly, and the Crown Prince's boneless limbs lolled grotesquely. Nothing. He was reminded brutally of the infamous incident with the questing beast; of blood slick against his fingers, of Uther's shuddering grief, of Arthur's lips turning a sickly blue.

_Fever makes one sick as Hell, but cold will make one sicker still! _One of Gaius ridiculous little made-up rhymes came back to him abruptly, and Merlin shuddered, drawing the Prince closer to him, mindful of the oppressively frosty air. He bit his lip and fisted his hands in the soft downy material of Arthur's leather collar, resolving to wait for a moment and see if the Prince came around on his own (it would be a first; Merlin had once had to resort to making Arthur smell a rotten fish then smacking him with it in order to get the lazy lout to get up).

He sighed and slumped further against the wall, bowing his head wearily against Arthur's temple and letting his eyes slip shut. This evening had been unexpectedly exhausting, and a dark sense of foreboding hung above his head like a gathering storm. His brain itched vaguely with the bombardment of confused emotions that railed at his consciousness, a million unanswered questions, and a myriad of niggling doubts. Things had just begun to settle down. His life had aligned itself into some sort of daily order and he'd never felt so close to belonging. He had people who cared about him, food on the table and no rampaging mobs wielding pitchforks calling for his blood (as of yet). He'd been smiling more and more every day, watching Arthur strengthen and grow and mature (slowly) and was pretty sure he was getting addicted to the Prince's laugh. Life had been comfortable. Right.

And now…

"You're hiding something from me." He murmured against golden hair, eyes still tightly shut, and immediately the annoying Not-Quite-Arthur in his head snarked back _Hark who's talking, Mr Secret-Sorcerer _"Shut up." He muttered in response, in an eerie echo of the man himself "you're just a disembodied figment of my imagination."

_Or __**am **__I? _Said the smug little voice surreptitiously, and Merlin gritted his teeth as a vein throbbed in his forehead "Yes, you are. Now bugger off." It did so, reluctantly, a bit affronted. Merlin couldn't bring himself to care.

"Well, looks like it's up to good ol' dependable Merlin to save the day and go unappreciated, _again._" He rolled his eyes mutinously, and was a little surprised at himself to hear an inflection of fondness creep into his tone. He sighed. Although he hated to admit it, he had by now pretty much resigned himself to caring about the ponced-up prat. _Hey _he could remember thinking, several weeks into Arthur's then almost intolerable service _If I'm going to be stuck protecting his pompous mug for eternity, might as well make an effort to __**like**__ him. _To his utter shock, he had quickly found that, when you looked closely, Arthur was actually entirely likeable. Sure, he had his glaring flaws: arrogance, pride, vanity, not to mention a slight lack of personal hygiene to name but a few, but he was also kind, fair, funny and just occasionally very…sweet (_Excuse me?! _Not-Quite-Arthur sniped, and Merlin grimaced) alright, perhaps sweet wasn't quite the right word but he could be…endearingly sincere sometimes. The clothes that Merlin wore seemed to suddenly glow with pride.

Arthur shuddered in his arms.

_I should probably get the idiot out of the cold _Merlin thought vaguely, shifting uncomfortably and moving his hand at the Prince's neck back around Arthur's back and shouldering a black-leather clad arm over his collarbone. He braced his muscles and heaved upwards, gritting his teeth as his knees shook slightly.

"Dragon spit!" he exclaimed, panting once upright and lugging Arthur's still form into a firmer position "You weigh a bloody _ton! _No more late night mutton-munching for you, sire."

He pushed off the wall and staggered, jaw set as he struggled to find his balance again. Even without his armour Arthur was a mass of muscle and metal buckles and heavy leather, and despite Merlin's recent filling out in stature he was still nowhere near strong enough to carry the Prince (bridal style, he thought with some smugness) all the way back to his chambers. He _could_ try to get Arthur over his shoulders, but he was a little concerned at the adverse effect hanging upside down might have on the Prince's already addled brain. Blood rushing to a just-fainted person's head was never healthy.

That left but one remaining option. He fixed the oblivious Arthur with a suspicious look "You had better be unconscious." He muttered, threateningly "Because if you're not, you might want to pass out for real right about now." He hesitated, then allowed a trickle of his power to flow through his veins and surround Arthur "_**Heeska**_." _Lighten_.

Immediately, all trace of the burden in his arms vanished alarmingly, and for a panicked moment Merlin was afraid he had winked the Prince out of existence. There was a disconcerting feather-light tingling sensation wherever Arthur touched Merlin, but no semblance of weight at all. Quite suddenly, the entire situation seemed surreal, and the warlock wondered if this wasn't all just some bizarre dream. Dusty moonlight filtered through the paneless ornate gapes in the wall beside them, spilling across Arthur's unmoving face. The rebounded luminosity slipped through each individual eyelash resting idly on the Prince's cheeks, casting long, needle-thin black shadows across his bloodless skin like the bars of a cage.

"You know, you're much less aggravating when you're dead to world." Merlin murmured, as the spindly shadows inked mysteries across Arthur's sleeping face "Come on, you infuriating drunkard, let's get you to bed. Before your Father executes me for-"

Cold metal dug into his back.

"Who goes there?" came a gruff, scratchy voice, and Merlin relaxed, turning slowly. He must be getting paranoid. It was only a guard.

"Merlin, the Prince's aide." He said, clearly, stepping forwards into the light to confront his armoured would-be assailant. The guard looked him over warily, his face scrunched in concentration, before nodding curtly and raising his eyebrow at Merlin's rather unconventional burden. The warlock grimaced, blood rushing to his cheeks, straightened up and cleared his throat:

"Guard, send a servant to inform the King that his son has retired on account of sudden illness." He said, with as much authority as he could muster, and the guard looked at him suspiciously before leaning forward and practically sniffing at Arthur. Suddenly, he let out a bark of harsh laughter, and Merlin wrinkled his nose as the smell of rotten eggs overwhelmed him.

"Blimey, it is the Prince, n'all!" he exclaimed, and Merlin stepped sharply away as the guard went to prod at Arthur's cheek "Looks like 'is royal Preciousness can't take 'is grog!"

Merlin frowned, annoyed _Great. Not only do I manage to run into the dimmest guard, he happens to be the smelliest too. Te-bloody-rific._

"I suggest you watch your tongue, or you may find your word's repeated in unfortunate places." He murmured, with more than just a veiled threat tinting his tone. He was tired, and he ached to get Arthur somewhere safe and warm so he could fall into his beloved straw bed and forget this entire ordeal ever occurred.

"Yessir." Muttered the guard, humbled "I 'ope his Princliness recovers soon. Prissy overdressed peacock that he is." He grumbled as he ambled away. _Will this night never end?! _Merlin thought thunderously, marching determinedly across the thankfully deserted courtyard, boots crunching ominously in the thick layer of snow. He had to sit down, he had to _think. _He needed to get to Arthur's room, or his own, or Gaius' physician quarters. In these three sanctuaries alone could he keep a clear head and somehow comprehend all this.

He stopped dead as he rounded the corner leading to the Royal stairwell.

In a small, shadowed niche between the rounded edge of the ascending spiral staircase and the wall, there came the distinct sound of scuffling material and low voices. At first, Merlin was quite certain he had stumbled across some misunderstanding or late-night disagreement, but as he drew tentatively closer he recognised the sharper sounds of deep-throated chuckles and heavy, gasping, panting noises. Something scraped rhythmically against stone. He swallowed thickly, heart hammering in his chest, and made to beat a hasty retreat up the stairs.

"Look, Thalius, we've got a little peeping Tom." Came a rich, foreign voice, and Merlin's heart sank. Not _again. _

He made the foolhardy mistake of looking back, and nearly choked in surprise at what he saw. The decadently rich clothing and glisten of precious jewels in the candlelight made it evident that the two men before him were Baldoreans, although the one currently pinned face-first against the wall (_oh god I think they're-) _was obviously from a lower caste of class as his dress was plainer. The two men were pressed so close together it was impossible to tell where one ended and the other began.

"Run along, sweetcheeks." The larger man closest to Merlin dipped his nose delicately into the tousled brown hair at his partner's neck and inhaled sharply, all the while staring intensely at Merlin with heavily dilated pupils. He smirked and suddenly grinded fiercely against his companion, eliciting a gasping noise that made Merlin flinch "Unless you and your pretty friend fancy joining us?"

"N-No." Merlin squeaked out with an impressive lack of dignity, backing away "Thanks."

Arthur chose that precise moment to groan and shift restlessly, burying his sleep-troubled features further into Merlin's neck with an intimacy that made the manservant _very_ uncomfortable. Something electric tainted the atmosphere, and the pungent scent of sweat and lust permeated the air like a drug. Merlin was aware of a sharp heat pooling in his stomach that was entirely unlike the anger he had felt before.

A melodical laugh lit the air "Are you quite certain?" the Baldorean's lopsided mouth curled lazily upwards "Come on, join us. You will not regret it, I assure you."

"Really." Merlin insisted, shortly, having had quite enough of lecherous smirks and suspect propositions for one day "I must decline."

He once again attempted to leave, but was forced to halt as he felt that rapidly familiar sensation of a hand closing around his wrist "Then how about you leave your friend here with us, hmm?" the man purred, reaching for Arthur.

"_Don't_ _touch him!_" Merlin exclaimed, this time making absolutely no attempt to conceal his disgust "Why is everyone from your country either perverted or creepy or both?!" And that, ladies and gentlemen, is the sound of Merlin's propriety sailing wildly out of the metaphorical window. Unfortunately, the man's smirk only widened "Hey, hey, hey, easy there!" he soothed coaxingly, as though trying to tame a wild animal, and Merlin felt his temper rising in a maelstrom of amalgamated aggravation "Why don't you-"

"Look, _sir._" Merlin said, bitingly, wrenching his aching wrist from the Baldorean's grip and feeling hours of restraint and frustration boil over "Let me make something quite plain for you: you do NOT want to mess with me right now. I have had a VERY long, VERY bad day today. I've been pushed into troughs, frozen, washed smelly clothes, been forced to dance, ridiculed, slapped on the arse, pinned to a corner and finally been assailed by an intoxicated mass of distressed Prince; so no, ACTUALLY, I am not at all inclined to join your little stairwell romp. Now kindly go back to fucking your stable boy and LEAVE ME THE HELL ALONE!"

Silence.

"Do you feel better for that?" inquired the Baldorean, eyebrow quirked as Merlin breathed harshly. The warlock shot him a scathing look "Yes, actually, I do."

The Baldorean laughed richly, throwing his head back, hair tossing wildly "You Albinians are a queer lot." He quickly returned his attentions to his fellow, resting his hands reverently on the others quivering hips "Suit yourself. The offer still stands if you're ever in the mood."

Merlin bolted up the steps, taking them two at a time, shaking with fury and frustration. Halfway up he tripped on a step, and pin-wheeled wildly in mid-air for a moment before slamming hard into the wall. He growled, and Arthur flinched and twisted in his grip. Merlin murmured something nonsensical in comfort and he stilled. The bemused warlock sighed heavily, and regained the ascent, slower this time, suddenly feeling a fervent wish for Arthur to wake.

"I never thought I'd say this, but I really wish you'd talk right now." He murmured. He felt…incomplete, like one of his limbs was missing, and his back prickled as though it was being watched "I'm going insane. I think I am actually going insane, or maybe the whole world is and I'm the only one left unscathed." He shuddered as he thought of Reylan, of the long shadows and of that wretched sense of foreboding that plagued him "Come on, Arthur, I need you. I'm no good at all this high-society socializing mayhem, you know that." He smiled thinly as he heaved himself up over the final step, the Prince's presence in his arms feeling suddenly heavier.

"It's wrong." He muttered, his words a troubled whisper "It's all wrong. And I don't know how to make it right because I don't even know _why _it's wrong."

"Merlin?"

Soft, cotton-muffled steps came ambling up the corridor behind him. A slight shuffling scuffle indicated a slightly pronounced limp in the right step. He knew precisely who it was, and wondered suddenly if his recently heightened senses were perhaps borne of an advance in his magical abilities. He could practically _smell _the distinctive signature of anyone he knew as they approached, even if they were more than fifty feet away. Their most trodden haunts held lingering vestiges of their presences: most blatantly Arthur's, whose crimson trail spun around his chambers, the stables and the training grounds like an inky blood stain.

"Gaius!" Merlin let out a relieved breath and turned to face his mentor, feeling a wave of relief cleanse him at the elderly physician's mustily herbal presence "Thank God."

Gaius opened his mouth to say something, then frowned, his wrinkled features askew in surprise as he took in the young warlock's predicament "What are you doing, boy?! What have you done now?!" he exclaimed, caught somewhere between exasperation and genuine concern .

"Why do you immediately assume this was _my_ fault?!" Merlin protested hotly, adjusting his grip on Arthur as the elderly physician peered acutely at the Crown Prince "Arthur's the one who's unconscious!" he grumped, then something struck him "What are you doing here, anyway?"

The venerable court physician looked at him sharply with a beady black eye, quirking an impressively pointy white eyebrow "Just delivering the nightly round to the regally afflicted. Now, tell me how _this_" he poked Merlin in the centre of the forehead, mouth set in a familiar grim, disapproving line as he gestured down at Arthur "sorry state of affairs came to be."

Merlin sighed, unsure how to communicate the recent traumatic chain of events without giving his elderly mentor a heart attack; _well you see, Gaius, some Baldorean creep designed to cop a feel and Arthur intervened, nearly got stabbed and then went all D.I.D (Damsel In Distress) on me. Oh, and did I mention running into a smelly guard and some foreign Lord ploughing his aide into next Tuesday? _Hm. Perhaps not.

In the end, he settled on an abridged explanation "He just…passed out." He muttered, looking on in trepidation as Gaius placed a gnarled hand steadily against Arthur's clammy skin, brow furrowed "He's breathing fine and he seems alright, but…" he trailed off, awaiting the management summary.

"He is a little warm." The physician concluded, a little anti-climactically "Not quite feverish, though, not dangerously anyway. Looks like a typical case of Post-feast syndrome to me. Probably the wine and the heat, that banquet hall can get like an oven sometimes. And all that leather can't have helped."

Merlin snorted, recalling the palaver over the black leather garments. The sunny, easy arguments of the bright midday seemed worlds away now "Can you do anything for him?"

His mentor contemplated for a moment, then shook his head "Not at the moment." A wry smile cracked his wrinkled features, warm mirth twinkling in his dark eyes "Although you should fetch him my special secret mystery cordial in the morning, he'll have a headache the size of an anvil." They shared a smug grin as Gaius adjusted the leather satchel at his side and turned towards the stairs "For now, just get him to bed and out of those warm clothes."

Merlin grimaced, and wondered what Arthur would have said to _that._

**It's SNOWING! :D You can blame the spastic British weather on my recent lack of update, folks, as that crispy white goodness was just too much to resist. Hm, not much happened in this chapter, but up next is lots of slashy fluffy goodness, so stay tuned! Oh, and pinch, punch first of the month and no returns to you all! :p**


	9. Chapter 9

**In which Arthur DOESN'T admit he and Merlin are destined to be butt-buddies…**

**No idea if anyone even remembers this series, it's been so long since I updated! But anyhoo, in case there are any lingering wanderers not of a mind to kill me for my negligence, have a freshly baked chapter!**

**9.**

The shadows came alive.

They writhed, creeping ever closer, crawling across the last remaining creases of light, reaching, grabbing, biting at him. He bucked and fought and struggled and ran but they were unrelenting, pushing harder, faster! The darkness pressed closer and closer and closer and it was on him and _in _him and pushing oh _God _he could hear that voice, echoing over and over and over again…_shhhh little Pendragon, shhhh…_and the smile. That smile-!

He couldn't breathe.

"Arthur."

He was so _cold. _

"Arthur, wake up. You're dreaming."

This voice…this voice was different. It was soft and gentle and whispered of safety and warmth and trust. Lavender. Musty herbs and polishing oil and fresh cotton and hay. Safety. _Safe_. Somebody…somebody good. Somebody kind. Somebody…important…

"Breathe. Just breathe, Arthur, it's alright. You're alright." splayed fingers rubbing firmly at his back, the fond inflection in that voice casting out the darkness and letting the light come pouring back in. He took a deep, gulping breath, started as he felt himself pitching backwards, flinched, but those familiar hands caught his head and delivered him safely to his resting place. A soft exhale of sweet stale air against his forehead, and a heavy velveteen mass is drawn carefully across his chest. Oddly, he feels not oppressed, but engulfed and cocooned by the weight. He sinks into them with a bone-deep exhaustion.

"You should rest, sire. It's been a long night." The voice filtered through his shattered consciousness from somewhere above him, uncharacteristically somber and subdued "For both of us."

No. No, he couldn't sleep, he couldn't, they were coming! The shadows were coming and they would take the voice from him! _HE _would take the kind voice from him!

"…lan." Parched lips cracked open a fraction and he felt his limbs flail uselessly against rough cotton "_**Reylan!**_" he heard his own voice break piteously as the darkness rushed greedily up to greet him-

"_Arthur_!" cool, blessed fingers encircled his beating wrists "Shh, calm down, it's alright, its okay, I promise!" he fell forwards into the voice, into something simultaneously soft and coarse "Shhhhh." He was being rocked. Almost imperceptibly, but rocked nonetheless. Like a baby. He flushed. Was he in a cradle? "You're in your chambers." His heart beat furiously. Thump-thump-thump. He must be drunk. Or mad. Or both. "All is well."

A very tiny, very embarrassed part of his brain had a horrific realization: _oh God. I'm snuggling my manservant._ Thankfully, this particular part of his brain was well accustomed to being determinedly ignored.

"…erlin…?" He croaked. An uncomfortable shift. An awkward pressure on his neck. "You should sleep, sire."

"Can't…" He murmured, thickly, head pounding while brightly coloured lights spun languidly in his mind's eye "…shadows." He shuddered deeply, and clung to the voice, burying himself further into that coarsely warm salvation. Somewhere far above him someone cleared their throat uncomfortably, embarrassed.

"Arthur?" the voice inquired gently, its tone an infinitely complex blend of emotion "what are you talking about?"

"Tired." His lips moved sluggishly, out of rhythm with his head, the words thick and clumsy on his tongue "Cold." _So cold. _

His makeshift pillow shifted, and he suddenly felt as though he was a lone sailor adrift on a stormy sea, tossing perilously in the waves. He groaned thickly, bile rising in his throat, and was caught mid-shudder as something blessedly soft was wrapped around his torso "Here. Hold this around you." There was a slight frown in that soft voice…softer than usual. Softer than it should be, but not…not unwelcomely so…"I'm not too sure, but I think it will help you sweat out the fever, or whatever this is."

Very slowly, he raised his leaden heat and peered blearily into the eyes of the owner of that elusive voice. Up close, he could just make out a rich blend of deep cerulean to pastel blue, like an expanse of volatile ocean kissing a soothing sky.

"Uh…Arthur?"

He blinked as his nose collided with somebody else's and he slumped abruptly back down, limbs trembling, frustrated. No, none of this was right. Some deep hidden truth itched at the back of his mind, swimming teasingly amid the intoxicated mess of his thoughts and he couldn't…quite…grasp it…

"…you're…eyes're…th'wrong colour…" he murmured, poking clumsily at his pillow's thin chest for emphasis "I…like…gold…better…"

That meant something…something…something important, but he…he couldn't quite…think…right now…

The shadows loomed and he flinched, turning his face into coarse, musty smelling cotton. He wanted to stay there forever, to sleep the dreamless sleep of the dead for a thousand years or more with…with…this person. This _important_ person. But he couldn't. He couldn't stay here, not like this, not this way because…because…

"…stay." He murmured, the whispered plea seeping from blood red lips slick with heat onto untarnished ivory skin like temptation. It branded the blessedly living carcass beneath his head, the foreign pulse quickening, beating accusingly against his flushed cheeks. Bones and skin and fire and ice tore at him mercilessly, but all quieted at the salvation of two simple words:

"Yes, sire."

He closed his eyes, and felt the ache of victory and defeat consume him. It cannot be this way. It cannot be this way. It cannot be this way, because…

…_because I must be the ignorant Prince while be plays the oblivious Pauper; and I must ignore everything that is, and everything that is not, and everything that could be between us. Because if I acknowledge…this…_the shadows danced mockingly as he slipped into their empty embraces_…I will lose him forever._

Cold. So very cold.

_I can't let that happen._

The darkness swallowed him.

_I __**won't.**_

&&&

**Sorry about the delay, peeps! Please r&r if you have the time!**


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